“And for her son.” Her gaze fell to her lap. “He is a beautiful boy. Looks much like his father.”
Navid. He prayed for the boy every morning, every night.
His fingers curled into his palm. So many times in the past five years he had started toward Asho’s house with his cart of carvings, fully intending to deliver them himself
so that he might catch a glimpse of his child.
But then as he drew near, as the shame and guilt of memory crashed over him, he realized he would cause turmoil for the boy if he showed up. And he turned away.
Esther forced a smile. “I hear Joshua is to marry next month. Kasia tells me he has been busy building a home for his bride.”
“With a foolish grin upon his face every moment.” He had encouraged Joshua to use the addition already finished and furnished, but his brother had refused.
He probably feared it would curse his match.
“And what of you?” She met his gaze again, held it. “When will you marry, Zech? It has been six years.”
She had forgiven him. Kasia said so, and he could see it for himself now. But forgiving himself . . . he was not sure he could ever accomplish that. What he had done to
Esther—the way he had treated Ruana. He shook his head. “I have nothing left to give a wife.”
“I cannot believe that. Please, Zech, try to be happy.”
“I am. Or content, anyway. I have my family, a passel of nieces and nephews to keep me entertained, with more sure to come after Joshua weds.”
“And your little Jewish army.” She grinned, eyes gleaming. “I sometimes rise with the sun so I might watch the lot of you practicing. Your numbers keep growing.”
She watched him, from her home in the palace? He shook that thought off. “We have broken into several groups, actually. And it is not only Jews. Bijan and many of his
friends join us too, to keep their reflexes sharp.”
A knock sounded at the door, and Zethar poked his head in. “Excuse me, mistress. Zech. The king is coming, and he would like some time alone with her.”
“Of course.” Esther stood, moved to the door.
Zechariah fell in behind her. Out in the hall, they both paused. He hesitated, then figured he might as well ask. In an undertone, so no one else would hear. “Are you
happy? I want to think you are, but I am never certain. Your husband is so in love with my sister . . .”
She gave him a smile he knew well. At peace with who she was, where she was, even if no one else understood that. Even if they thought she ought to reach for something more.
“I am content.”
How odd, that only now did he fully understand that. He nodded and watched her walk away, then turned toward the exit.
He found Abba and Ima at the gate, which was curiously absent of Mordecai. They held each other, rocked to the rhythm of Ima’s keening. He gathered them up and urged them
home.
*
Mordecai rent his garment and fell to the floor with a guttural cry. He had known Haman hated Kasia, hated him, hated all the Jews—but he had never thought it would come to
this. Had never thought he would hear such a decree in the streets.
“Jehovah! He has set a day for destruction. A day to wipe your children from the face of the earth. First Kasia, but now this?”
A whisper moved over him, through him. Mourn for my people. Take your lamentations into the streets.
He trembled and curled his arms over his head. “I will mourn, Jehovah. I will mourn, and I will trust in your deliverance.”
Dragging in a breath, he moved to the trunk in the corner of his room. On the bottom rested the sackcloth he had not worn since Keturah died so many years ago. He drew it
out, ran a hand over the scratchy, irritating cloth.
The time for the Lord’s purpose had come—and the first step was reminding the people of Susa that the Jews were their neighbors, their friends.
He slipped the sackcloth over his head, then strode out to the kitchen. Martha dropped her spoon when she spotted him, but he did not speak. Not yet. He plunged a hand into
the ash bin and rubbed it over his face. Down his arms and legs. Across the back of his neck.
Then he headed for the streets. He would mourn until the whole of Susa mourned with him. So loudly the king would hear even through the cloud of his grief.
*
Ima’s hand shook as she ladled soup into Abba’s bowl. Abba stared blindly at it. The younger children all glanced at each other, at their parents, then to Zechariah.
He sighed and dropped his hand onto the table. “Enough of this. You must tell them what is going on, Abba. She needs all the prayers we can muster.”
Abba raised weary eyes to him. So long he had fought this, clinging to his stubborn pride. He looked devoid of strength to fight any longer. He sighed and waved a hand. Ima
pressed a hand to her mouth and sank to her seat.
Zechariah looked at his younger siblings. “It is Kasia. She did not die nine years ago, she was merely taken to the palace to wed the king.”
Joshua’s cup splashed as he dropped it to the table. “What?”