Page 49 of The Guardian's Promise

A knot formed in her stomach. Allowing Ari’s grandmother to attend her seemed disrespectful. It was she who should be attending Sybil.

“You should not.” Mira glanced at the slated floor.

“Why is it, my child? I wonder why you think I should not cleanse the day’s travel from you?”

“You humble me. It is I who should honor you in such a way,” Mira answered.

“Pash. It is an honor to meet your needs.” Sybil returned.

Sybil gathered Mira’s hand within hers and drew her to the pool of steaming water. The water percolated leaving bubbles on the surface. Did Ari’s family think to cook her? “Will it burn?”

“No. See.” Sybil sunk their combined hands beneath the surface.

Amazingly, although the water bubbled, it was only warm. Mira looked for the source, but found none.

“Here,” Sybil said, untying the linen cloth around Mira’s chest. “Once you are sitting in the tub, you will feel much better.”

With Sybil’s encouragement, she climbed up the few steps and then down into the pool of water. She sat rigid.

“Child, you’ll grow wrinkles frowning as you are. Relax.” Sybil nudged her shoulder to relax against the cushioned mat. Mira took several breaths of air. The water, warm and comforting, forced her limbs to droop. She gave in and closed her eyes.

“There now, is that not better?” Anna asked.

The feebleness of her limbs must have traveled to her mind for she could not form a coherent thought. At least no thoughts outside of Ari. His rugged handsomeness with his aquiline nose. The rich tan of his skin. The strength of his hands...

Mira rolled her neck as Sybil dumped water over her hair. The woman’s fingertips massaged her scalp. Reminding her of Ari’s earlier caress.

The rich scent of cinnamon teased her senses with each wave of the water. The cinnamon was followed by cloves. It was as if she were being prepped for sacrifice, but only unblemished offerings were given. And nobody could say she was without blemishes.

Why, her skin was too golden from days in the sun, not the porcelain complexion of his mother and sister. The palms of her hands were calloused. And if any cared to look, they would see the twist of her fingers on her right hand, the marred skin of her shoulder and down her arm, which none had spied outside of her mother and sister.

Mira’s cheeks heated with shame. Would Ari’s grandmother disapprove of her, too? She closed her eyes and waited for the woman to say something, but Ari’s grandmother cleansed Mira’s skin without a word and when she reached the scars there was no sharp intake of breath or disgusted grunts, as was Rubiel’s tendency when she saw the puckered skin. Ari’s grandmother washed her with gentleness and not as one on a mission to scrub away her imperfections.

The kindness warmed her heart and forced tears to her eyes. For whenever her mother saw them she clucked in pity and her sister, well, she always had the look of disgust. As long as Mira kept them hidden they could pretend she was just like everyone else. Perfect.

And that was the water in the earthenware jar. When Ari was a bond servant he was like her, a human with imperfections. But now that she knew his secret, that he was a priest, a servant of the one true God, he deserved nothing but perfection.

She curled her fingers in the warmth of the water. The lone tear sliding down her cheek had nothing to do with the pain in her knotted knuckles as she clenched her fist.

Perfection was something she would never be.

Chapter Twenty-One

Mira stepped out onto the terrace and peace settled over her. Flimsy cloth hung from the ceiling blowing in the breeze from the sea, tantalizing her eyes with glimpses of the scenery beyond. Curious, she moved closer to the edge. She slid her fingers down the gauzy fabric and tasted the salt from her lips a moment before she lost her breath.

White-capped waves of blue lay cradled within the wilderness. Mountain peaks rose on all sides as if to protect the secrets of the sea. Here, high above the landscape a sense of pride welled in her breast, a pride that rightfully did not belong to her, for it had not been her hand that had shaped the jagged lines and multifaceted hues.

An urge to fall to her knees shook her. Father, God of all creation, I am not worthy of such a gift.

The evening breeze danced across her cheeks and she drank in each detail, the sound of the waves crashing into the mountain fortress. The taste of salt. The puff of clouds cloaking the horizon.

How could anyone stand here and not see how gracious their Creator was? What beautiful blessings He offered to His people. And yet she’d seen too many people take for granted the offerings of the Lord. If anyone ever doubted God’s love all they needed to do was open their eyes.

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