“He sounds horrible.” The moment the word slipped out, she slapped a hand over her mouth and prayed Jehovah would strike her dead here and now.
Atossa laughed. “Your opinion is not unexpected, given your upbringing. He is not horrible, child, he is . . . the king. His attention is by necessity fractured. He must be
many things to many people. To his wives, he is at once the axis around which you turn and a star afar off in the night. Do what you can to please him, Kasia, or at least to
keep from angering him. But know that whatever you find with him, it will be fleeting. That is the way of things. Life here, for all its polish and sparkle, is largely
uneventful unless you fall into a scandal.” She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Which I would not advise.”
The advice seemed unnecessary—until Masistes’ teasing gaze filled her mind’s eye. “Noted. Duly. I shall . . .” What? Resign herself to a life of nothingness? She was
not so sure she could. But she would not dishonor her father, her husband, and her God by acting on silly dreams.
She would not. “I shall find contentment in my place.”
“Then you will be better off than most of the wives.” Atossa smiled again and then stood. “I shall let Hegai proceed. After you go to the king, I will pay you another
visit.”
Kasia jumped to her feet, though she had no idea how to say farewell to royalty. Would those lessons be poured upon her this week along with the oils and perfumes, or would
she be let to blunder her way through? She suspected Haman and Amestris would be in favor of the blundering. Hopefully Hegai’s and Atossa’s attention would save her.
*
Mordecai nodded to his manservant as he shut the door behind him. Esther sat in the same place she had when he left three hours earlier. Her fingers kept busy with the
mending, but her expression was a hollow mask of pain.
That was how she looked when he first met her three years before, after her parents’ deaths. He had hastened across the miles the moment the news reached him, but still she
was alone for a month, with naught but a neighbor to watch her. His heart broke that day, when he beheld the small girl who looked ready to give up on life. It broke again
now at the return of the dispassion.
“Daughter.”
She looked up with the smile she always gave when he called her “daughter” instead of “cousin.” But it was a dim echo of the smile that graced her features one short
week ago.
Mordecai sighed. “We will be dining with Kish and his family tonight.”
Esther’s gaze fell again. “I am not hungry.”
“I know.” He crouched down beside her and urged her chin up with a finger. “But you must eat, dear one. If you waste away and leave me too, then how will I survive it? I
need you, Esther. Kasia’s family needs you. You were closer to her than any of them, and they are comforted by your presence.”
Her face twisted in agony before she turned it away. “How can you be so calm about her loss? How can you go over there without it piercing you anew?”
A question he could not answer. Not honestly. How could he explain that the part of his soul that had blossomed as he watched Kasia, as he came to love her, did not accept
this loss at all? It felt as though she were only on a journey. Visiting family in another province. Not here, but not gone. Not for good.
It was a delusion—he knew that. But when he cried out to the Lord his God, he felt a whisper of peace wash over him like the river flooding the plains. And the soil of his
being was left fertile with hope.
Perhaps he was a fool to think she might return. But he was not enough of one to share that, to get another’s hopes up where they could be dashed against the rocks of
reality. Still, he could not escape the peace, the feeling that the young woman he loved so much was well.
To Esther he could only say, “I trust in Jehovah, my child. I find my sustenance in him.”
“But he allowed this to happen. He sent the rains that killed her.”
“Those rains fall on the just and the unjust alike. He allows much tragedy, or so it seems to us. But we cannot see the future, precious Esther. We do not know what greater
tragedy may have come had this one been withheld. It is our part to have faith in his divine orchestration. To put our hand into his and keep our eyes open, so that we might
see what small blessings blossom under our tears.”
She turned her face back to him. He would not have said she looked convinced, but her eyes were no longer shuttered behind the dull pain. They blazed with an ache magnified
by her tears. “What blessing can come of this, cousin? You have lost yet another woman you love. I have lost a dear friend, a sister, a would-be mother.”
“Yes, we have. But there is another family of friends three doors down that has also lost a daughter, a sister, and one they loved far longer than we did. Who are we to
withhold what comfort we can give them, because it hurts us? Is it not our part to ease their burden in whatever way we can?”