“Oh.” Suddenly I saw that my weak attempt at “helping” Anat was worse than no help at all. I was only getting in the way, keeping her from finishing her work. “Not now. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
She gave me a funny look. “Sorry, mistress? You?” Now she did smile. “You are kind. I am the one to ask your pardon.”
“You didn’t do—” I began.
“For being as touchy as a sunburned dog. I always had a bad temper, even when I was a little girl, back home in Ebla. I am afraid that I woke up this morning with the boneache, which only makes it worse.” She rested both hands on the small of her back and winced. “I will teach you how to make bread another time, young mistress, I promise.”
I gazed at Anat with fresh awareness, seeing her as she was—gnarled hands, bent backbone, and careworn face, a stranger in our land, an old woman who would never be able to smile and declare: That’s enough work for me now. I’m tired and I’m going to rest.
I remembered another of the texts Henenu had given me to copy. It was a song where the poet wrote about seeing his childhood playmate and suddenly realizing that he loved her. The gods who give blindness and sight have opened my eyes to your beauty. They have given a new light to my eyes. I see you as never before. My eyes were newly opened, too, but when I turned them to see the way I’d treated Anat and the other slaves—the other people in our home—I didn’t like what I saw. I wanted to say more to her, as if my words would be enough to sweeten the life she led in our household. I couldn’t think of a single thing to tell her that could do that, except—
“You’re free,” I murmured under my breath.
“Mistress?” Anat was old, but her ears were keen. She blinked at me, confused by what she’d heard.
“Nothing.” I didn’t have the right to give her the one thing she should have before all others. Suddenly I wanted that power more than anything in the world. I stood before her, twisting my fingers, helpless and miserable.
“Mistress, I must get back to my work.”
I nodded and left the kitchen, but I couldn’t go back to my bed. Instead, I made my way into the garden. It was still dark, but dawn was coming. The fresh air carried the juicy green scent of reeds and papyrus plants from the river. I moved carefully along the path until I found the statue of Isis.
When I was younger, the goddess towered over me. As much as I loved Isis, I was always a little afraid of her, too. Wise, kind, and loving, she was also capable of unleashing the destructive might of magic against her enemies. Now, however, I’d grown tall enough to look the goddess in the eyes. The goddess herself was only as tall as Bit-Bit when she’d been two years old. The rest of the statue’s height was its limestone pedestal, all four surfaces covered with prayers and praises for Isis.
I sat in the dirt and leaned my head against the cool stone. I had to close my eyes tight or risk accidentally reading what was written on the base of Isis’s statue. I’d read those words many times before, when Henenu and I sometimes had our lessons in the goddess’s shadow, but I couldn’t do so ever again. I’d made a promise to Father and I had to honor it.
“O Isis, there’s so much I want to change, but—how can I? Help me be strong,” I whispered. I wanted to pray more eloquently, but I didn’t trust myself to find the right words. Could I pray for Anat’s freedom? What about the rest of our slaves, then, and the slaves that the other families of Akhmin owned, and those who were the property of the temples? The priest of Isis had at least twenty. If Isis hadn’t freed the slaves under her own roof, why would she do anything to help Anat?
Confusion set my mind whirling. Questions without answers made me so tired that I began to doze with the carved words praising Isis pressed against my cheek. I fell asleep where I sat.
Nefertiti, what was your promise? A soft voice breathed in my ear, the words lilting, like a song. What did you tell your father?
My eyes opened abruptly. I was still in the garden, but it looked different. The colors and edges of things were blurred. Only the image of Isis, smiling down at me, seemed real. I raised my eyes to the goddess.
I promised him that I wouldn’t read and write anymore, I replied. I swore it!
Did you, my daughter? The goddess’s face never moved, but I felt as if her smile grew a little wider. Think, Nefertiti. Remember the words you truly spoke.
And I did. As I sat at the feet of Isis, I saw the carvings on the base of her statue begin to writhe and shift shape, new words appearing out of the old, like a snake wriggling free of his former skin: I swear by Ma’at and Isis, by the goddess Seshat and by my mother’s spirit, if Henenu stays welcome in our home, I will never have another lesson from him.
From him! But that means— The joy I felt was so sudden, so intense that I was breathless, my heart pounding. O sweet Isis, thank you. Thank you!
For what? The goddess sounded amused by my wild gratitude. I’ve given you nothing. You are who and what you are, and if that means you must be She-who-writes, not even the greatest spell in my power can change it.
I woke from my dream with Bit-Bit shaking me, then laughing when I turned my face to her. “Oh, Nefertiti, you’ve got squiggles!” she exclaimed, pointing. I raised my hand to my cheek and discovered that the carvings on the base of Isis’s image had left their mark on my skin.