It now appeared that the Muratomo had the Takashi on the run. The southern half of the inner palace compound was swept clear of Takashi, and the pivoting advance of the Muratomo became a rush as the Takashi began a headlong retreat.

A flash of gleaming red caught Jebu’s eye. It was the dragon on Kiyosi’s helmet. Waving his sword, the Takashi leader was calling his men to fall back before the onrushing Muratomo. He was leading the retreat.

But a Takashi retreat made no sense. Kiyosi should be rallying his warriors to make a stand. The Takashi outnumbered the Muratomo three to one. They had managed to overwhelm the outer defences. They had only to keep on and they would grind the Muratomo down. But so rapidly did the Takashi fall back that there was no time to pin them against the Ceremonial Hall, the aim of Domei’s counter-attack. Instead, the fleeing Takashi and the charging Muratomo circled the Cherry Tree a second time, swirling like a whirlwind.

And now Kiyosi’s red helmet and dazzling sword could be seen leading the Takashi out the gate they had broken in through. A cheer went up from the Muratomo as they rushed out of the palace grounds in pursuit of their foe.

“Stop!” Jebu called. “Stop! Close the gate and hold the palace.” But the samurai flooded past Jebu as if he were just another ornamental tree on the palace grounds. The Muratomo vanguard, led by Domei’s white plume, was already far down Redbird Avenue. Jebu and a handful of Muratomo samurai remained behind. In a moment the walled park was nearly empty.

A strange silence fell. The screams and shouts and clatter of battle faded in the distance. All that remained, besides Jebu and the few samurai, were hundreds of armoured bodies scattered over the white gravel of the outer grounds and the inner compound. Here and there lay a severed head, arm or leg, a dark lump of leather-wrapped flesh surrounded by a puddle of blood. Blood was everywhere, in pools, splashes and streams, as if the palace grounds were white paper on which a giant calligrapher had been writing with red ink. The white of the Muratomo and the red of the Takashi, thought Jebu. Together they have inscribed their poem of war on the most sacred ground of Sunrise Land.

The realm would never be the same again. This palace had been built four hundred years ago by Kammu, the ancestor of the Takashi. Since then it had been the centre of harmony and serenity for the whole empire. Now it was splashed with blood and littered with mutilated bodies. The Emperor would undoutedly survive these great changes that were shaking the land, but he would not govern, nor would his ministers. Whoever governed in the future would govern with the sword.

Men screamed for help, other men begged for a quick death, while some groaned in half-consciousness. The few Muratomo samurai who had stayed behind walked about identifying their dead comrades and trying to help the wounded. Others systematically went from one wounded Takashi to the next, slitting throats, spilling more blood on the white stones. Some performed the same service as a mercy for the badly injured Muratomo. Jebu looked down at his armour, dappled with blood.

Young Hideyori came up to him, wiping his sword clean with a white cloth. “We had better get these men together, shiké. The Takashi will be upon us at any moment.”

“You saw that? Good, Hideyori-san. You’ll make a good general.”

Hideyori smiled, his eyes as remote and cold as ever. “You saw it and I saw it, but my father didn’t see it. My father—” He broke off, shaking his head.

“There’ll be too many of them for us to fight,” said Jebu.

“We can hold the inner compound. Or at least the Ceremonial Hall.”

“Yes, and the last of us to die can set fire to it.”

“Why not?”

“Nonsense. I’m going to deliver you to your father alive.”

“A foolish promise, impossible to keep.”

At that moment the lookout on the inner wall gave a long, shrill cry of alarm, and the storm was upon them again. There was no stopping the Takashi who swarmed up their scaling ladders, planted their blood-red flags on the parapets, and dropped from the walls to the ground like a swarm of beetles falling upon a mulberry tree.

“This way,” Jebu called. Followed by about fifty Muratomo samurai, he and Hideyori burst through the unguarded gateway leading to the northern part of the palace grounds. Takashi samurai raced after them.

Half the Muratomo samurai, forced to act without orders, stopped, turned and formed a defensive line to hold back the Takashi. Jebu could see Kiyosi’s dragon-crowned helmet as it passed through the gateway through which they had just escaped. A mass of Takashi fell upon the Muratomo line. Then Jebu could see no more.

They ran past the Imperial residential buildings surrounding the little park in the north-west section of the grounds. A samurai beside Jebu took an arrow in the back and fell into the ornamental pool. Frightened maidservants and ladies-in-waiting peered out at them. Some were supporters of the Muratomo and called out frantic questions, which Jebu and the samurai ignored.

Beyond the residential buildings Jebu saw a stable. There was no time to saddle the horses. Panting, their breath steaming, the men threw themselves on the animals’ bare backs. There were only a dozen horses. Those samurai who were left without horses turned and lined up to hold off pursuers.

They rode for the north-west gateway in the outer wall. A Takashi humming-bulb arrow shot past Jebu’s head with a piercing whistle. Jebu decided that if the Takashi caught up with them he would turn and fight them at the gate, giving Hideyori time to escape.

These samurai deceived themselves into thinking their blades had magical power. “A sword has only as much power as the man behind it,” Jebu said.

Domei shook his head. “Any time a man believes he has power, he has it. This is one of the secrets of warfare, shiké. Go now, and find Hideyori.”

At that moment Kiyosi broke into a gallop, pointing Kogarasu at the little band of Muratomo standing atop the wall. With a roar, the Takashi warriors ran behind their mounted leader, their heavy sandals drumming on the pavement of Redbird Avenue like a stampede of wild horses. Thousands of long swords stabbed the air. The sea of poppies had become a wave of steel.

Scaling ladders sprang up from among the flashing swords, and the Takashi wave crashed against the walls of the Imperial Palace. Over the din Domei shouted orders to his men on the grounds below, and archers sprang to the walls to loose their arrows into the mass of Takashi warriors.

Forcing down his urge to join in the fight at the wall, Jebu hurried down the steps leading to the palace grounds. He ran across the white gravel to the inner wall surrounding the main buildings of the palace. A long line of defenders had formed between the two ancient trees, the Cherry Tree of the Left and the Orange Tree of the Right, which stood before the Ceremonial Hall. Jebu found Hideyori among them. The young man’s fingertips nervously tapped his sword hilt.

“Have you ever drawn blood with that?”

Hideyori shrugged. “I tried it out on a slave. But you heard what my father said. I just had my topknot ceremony. I’ve never been in real combat. Why do we have to stay here? I’d rather be on the outer wall.”

Jebu looked through the gateway leading out of the compound. He saw a Takashi banner wave briefly on the outer wall, then fall. “From the look of it, the Takashi will be coming to us,” he said. In his mind he was repeating the Zinja sentences to compose his mind for battle. Arrows flew through the air, but none of them fell near the Muratomo line within the palace compound.

There came a rush of Muratomo defenders from the outer wall to join the line between the two trees. Right behind them the Takashi burst through and streamed into the palace compound like a long ribbon of red silk unwinding. Jebu unslung his bow and took aim at Kiyosi, but the scion of the house of Takashi changed direction suddenly, and the arrow flew past him and disappeared. Make every arrow count, Jebu reminded himself with chagrin. He wanted Kogarasu, which he could see slashing like a great silver scythe, too badly. He was infected with the lust for success. He resolved just to act and to forget about Kiyosi’s sword. The Self doesn’t collect swords, he thought.

“Stay close to me,” Jebu said to Hideyori. The young Muratomo had his sword out. Jebu stood to his left and slightly in front of him, acting as a shield. Other Muratomo samurai, seeing their leader’s son in their midst, crowded around him protectively.

Jebu wished Domei were more of a planner. The Takashi, at least, seemed to have some sense of direction, and it was working for them. The Muratomo fought as samurai usually did, every man for himself, and they were being driven back.

A big Takashi samurai drove his naginata straight at Hideyori’s chest. Jebu brought his Zinja sword down in a chopping swing and broke the naginata pole. But the broken end of the pole struck Hideyori and threw him, stunned, to the ground.

“We have Domei’s son,” the Takashi samurai shouted, drawing his sword against Jebu. Jebu swung his sword at the Takashi’s legs. The Takashi brought his sword down to block the swing. Jebu drew his sword back and struck again, but this time as the attacker’s sword came down to block him, Jebu turned his blade and struck upwards. The force of the Takashi’s blocking motion brought his right forearm down on the Zinja blade. Only by quickly letting go of his sword was he able to save his arm from being severed. As it was, Jebu’s blade had cut through muscle and sinew right to the bone. The big samurai, bellowing in pain and anger, fell back among his comrades.

Jebu stood over Hideyori, his short sword cutting and thrusting this way and that. An empty circle formed around him. Slowly Hideyori got to his feet and the Muratomo samurai closed around them.

Domei, recognizable, in spite of his face plate, by the white horsehair plume on his helmet, came riding towards Jebu and the other men near the Cherry Tree of the Left. Domei leaned down and patted Jebu on his shoulder.

“I saw that. My son would not be alive now if it weren’t for you. You’re a marvellous swordsman. In battle, the Zinja are devils. You must train my sons.”

The Zinja are devils. But Jebu did not have time to think about that now. Domei wheeled his horse and began rallying his men. In a moment the Muratomo had steadied their line between the two trees.

Domei gave the command, and the Muratomo counter-attacked, those at the far right end of the line running at full tilt, spearheaded by horsemen, slashing wildly with their swords, thrusting with their naginata. Nearer the Cherry Tree the Muratomo line advanced more slowly. Jebu and Hideyori stayed at the left side of the line to hold the samurai there to a slow, inexorable walk controlling the pivot. Many white banners were waving in the air now, and the Muratomo taiko drummers pounded wildly to spur on the attack.

It now appeared that the Muratomo had the Takashi on the run. The southern half of the inner palace compound was swept clear of Takashi, and the pivoting advance of the Muratomo became a rush as the Takashi began a headlong retreat.

A flash of gleaming red caught Jebu’s eye. It was the dragon on Kiyosi’s helmet. Waving his sword, the Takashi leader was calling his men to fall back before the onrushing Muratomo. He was leading the retreat.

What a marvellous young man, she thought. When there are men in the world like him and Kiyosi and Jebu, why must I be married to Horigawa? Of course, this one is a bit young, even for me. But those black, penetrating eyes.

She lit a one-hour stick of incense. In an hour Hideyori and his party would be far away. It would be time to dig up old Squint-Eyes, if he were still alive.

Chapter Twelve

Jebu had been placed in charge of the guard over the Retired Emperor, who was installed in the minor palace, one of the residential buildings in the north-west section of the palace grounds. Go-Shirakawa had remained in seclusion except for the previous evening, when there had been a meeting of the Great Council of State. Jebu heard the meeting had not gone well for Domei. In spite of the presence of armed Muratomo samurai, a major councillor had made a speech denouncing Domei as a rebel against the crown. Encouraged, the council had avoided approving Domei’s demands. This delaying tactic could be as disastrous for Domei’s cause as outright rejection.

In addition, Hideyori and his men had returned, and Jebu heard that Horigawa had eluded his pursuers. Jebu felt a pang of disappointment, and realized he had been hoping to learn that Taniko had been made a widow.

Domei’s forces, the thousand samurai of the palace guard, augmented by six thousand Muratomo samurai called in from around the country, continued to drill and to stand guard over the walls surrounding the palace grounds. The White Dragon banner over the main gateway flew just as bravely in the cold winter air. But there was a feeling of tension and uncertainty among the samurai. They needed action, but there was nothing for them to do.

At noon on the third day of Domei’s seizure of the palace, a young samurai came to Jebu, who was meditating on the veranda of the minor palace.

“Captain Domei wants you at the south-centre gateway.”

Domei and other Muratomo leaders were standing on the parapet of the palace wall overlooking Redbird Avenue. Domei appeared tired and discouraged.

“You did well bringing in His Retired Majesty, shiké.”

“I should have prevented the burning of his palace.”

Domei shrugged. “Just another old building. The main thing is, we got Go-Shirakawa and we didn’t lose a man.” He lowered his voice. “I’m speaking to you now because you’re not one of us. You’re not a samurai, nor a member of the Muratomo clan. Perhaps you won’t be as affected by the news. I’ve tried to keep it a secret. This morning Emperor Nijo escaped.”

“How?”

“Some Takashi infiltrated the palace grounds, disguised the Emperor as a lady-in-waiting, and whisked him out one of the side gates in a carriage. What’s more, Sogamori and Kiyosi have returned to the city. We can expect an attack at any moment. When it comes, I want you to guard my son.”

Jebu knew that Domei had five sons, but he had only met Hideyori. “I presume you mean your youngest son, Hideyori?”

Domei smiled. “I have a son younger than Hideyori. He’s eleven and he’s safe at his mother’s house. I do mean Hideyori. He’s a proud devil. He wants to prove himself better than his older brothers. But he is young to be in the thick of the fighting that will come. The greatest casualties are always among the youngest. Stay close to Hideyori. Try to protect him. But also, try not to let him know you’re doing it.”

Jebu was touched. He remembered Taitaro’s care-worn face the morning after his initiation as a Zinja. Fathers loved their sons, but had to send them into danger.

A cry of alarm came from the near-by Muratomo officers. “Here they come.”

Jebu looked over the wall. The Takashi were advancing. Led by a small group of mounted samurai, the Takashi marched a hundred abreast, their ranks filling the entire breadth of Redbird Avenue. The sun glittered on their armour and the ornamental horns on their helmets. Their hundreds of red banners looked like a sea of poppies. Their war taiko thundered a relentless, triumphant rhythm.

Their leader, riding down the middle of the avenue, wore a helmet with a red-lacquered dragon. His black armour was decorated with gold butterflies and orange-tinted lacings. He rode a chestnut stallion with white mane and tail, and his saddle was inlaid with mother-of-pearl in willow and cherry designs. In his hands he held a long sword curved near the base, the haft decorated with gold and silver mountings.

“That magnificent one,” Domei snarled. “That’s Kiyosi, Sogamori’s son. Look how he’s got himself up. The Takashi are all so vain. We’ll spoil their looks for them today. That sword in his hand, that’s Kogarasu.” He drew his own sword. The winter sun glinted on its long, almost straight blade. “I, too, have my heirloom sword with me Higekiri, the sword that sliced off the arm of the demon of the Rasho Mon. We’ll see whose sword has more power today.”

These samurai deceived themselves into thinking their blades had magical power. “A sword has only as much power as the man behind it,” Jebu said.

Domei shook his head. “Any time a man believes he has power, he has it. This is one of the secrets of warfare, shiké. Go now, and find Hideyori.”

Going to the women’s building, she ordered her maidservants to arrange the wall screens to create a spacious audience chamber. At one end of the room they set a screen of state whose curtains were decorated with a design of snow-covered mountains.

She heard horses and cries in the courtyard, and a moment later a warrior’s heavy tread on the steps of the women’s house. A young man’s voice spoke to her maidservants.

A moment later the samurai leader strode into Taniko’s chamber on stockinged feet. He made a low bow. “Am I in the presence of Lady Shima no Taniko, wife of Prince Sasaki no Horigawa?”

The blinds and screens around the room were pulled tight to keep out the winter air, and little light came into the room from outside. Taniko had arranged the lamps so that the light was on the intruder, leaving her screen and herself in the shadows. Through tiny apertures between the screen’s hangings she studied the Muratomo leader. In the palace, on the Empress’s business, it was occasionally permissible for her to be seen by men. In her own home, and especially meeting with an invader, she was required to shield herself behind a screen of state.

The samurai was a boy. His face was smooth. His forehead, surmounted by the samurai topknot, was high. When he was fully grown, she thought, his face would be strong. As yet it had a boy’s smoothness.

“I do not know who you are,” said Taniko, “but you appear by your dress and bearing to be a well-born warrior. Your arrival is sudden and surprising to us, but we will make you welcome as best we can.”

His eyes were alert, suspicious, unfriendly.

“I am Muratomo no Hideyori, son of Muratomo no Domei, captain of the palace guards and chieftain a the Muratomo clan. I have come at my father’s order, seeking His Highness, your husband.”

To kill him, thought Taniko. She said, “The prince would certainly wish to meet you, were he here. Alas, he left us last night. His destination, he said, was a temple on the northern shore of Lake Biwa.”

“He began a journey at night?”

“So must you have, to reach Daidoji from the capital by morning. In His Highness’s case, a diviner warned him that north would be an unlucky direction for him today.” The nobility of Heian Kyo frequently planned their movements on the basis of lucky and unlucky directions.

“Staying at home might have been unlucky for him as well,” said Hideyori. “In spite of what you tell me, I feel I must seek the prince here at Daidoji, in the hope that I may present him with my father’s greetings. Do I have your permission to look for him?”

“Of course, Hideyori-san,” said Taniko. “You will have every assistance from His Highness’s servants.”

Hideyori bowed, turned and left her. He had his father’s commanding manner and good looks, she thought. A few moments later she heard his voice shouting orders. She moved two lamps closer to where she sat, settled down again with The Tale of the Hollow Tree, and waited, wondering what it must be like for Horigawa in his pit and how long he could live under the weight of all that earth. It did not matter that she loathed the man. He was her husband, and it was her duty to do everything in her power to preserve his life.

After a time Hideyori returned. Taniko quickly withdrew behind her screen. “You are correct, my lady. Prince Horigawa appears to be gone. If you will permit me now to search the women’s house, I will accept what you’ve said, that Prince Horigawa is not here, and I will leave you in peace.”

“Surely you would not distress my ladies by searching their quarters. Prince Horigawa is a man of noble birth. He would not hide among women.”

The young Muratomo looked at her gravely through the screen. “You are of a samurai family, my lady. Do you give me your word as a samurai that Prince Horigawa is not here?”

“He is not in the women’s quarters. You have my word.”

“Then I will leave your ladies undisturbed if you will grant me one favour.”

“What is that?”

“I have heard that the wife of Prince Horigawa is one of the most beautiful women in the capital. I would like to see for myself. Come out from behind that screen and let me look at you. Then I will go.”

He was bold, for one so young. She studied him through the screen. His eyes were a fathomless black. He was staring back, trying to see past the hangings, but his expression was one of unabashed interest, with nothing corrupt, nothing cruel about it. It was not the look she had seen in Sogamori’s eyes when Lady Akimi was mentioned, or for that matter when the Takashi chieftain looked at her. There was something straightforward and likeable about the Muratomo men.

“Very well.” Daintily, drawing her kimono, patterned with red flowers, more closely about her, and taking an ivory fan from her sleeve and opening it, she stepped out from behind the screen and stood before Hideyori. She stood partially turned away from him with her eyes downcast. She held her fan so as not to hide her face, but to shield and reveal it at the same time.

There was a very long silence. At last, Taniko could stand it no longer. She looked up and allowed her eyes to meet his. He sighed. “Well?” she said with a touch of impatience.

Young Hideyori bowed. “They lied, those who said you were one of the most beautiful women in the capital. There is none more beautiful than you.”

“Your mother is more beautiful than I am.”

“My mother?”

“Yes. Lady Akimi is a good friend of mine.”

Hideyori’s face hardened, as if turned to stone. “Lady Akimi is not my mother.”

Taniko turned away, mortified by her mistake. Hideyori must be Domei’s son by one of his official wives. She knew that Akimi had a young son by Domei and had simply assumed that this must be he.

“Please forgive me. My error was stupid beyond belief. I meant no offence.”

Hideyori shrugged. “No doubt I have offended you greatly by coming here. Forgive me for bringing trouble to your house. May the kami show favour to you, my lady. I take my leave of you now.” He bowed again and was gone.

What a marvellous young man, she thought. When there are men in the world like him and Kiyosi and Jebu, why must I be married to Horigawa? Of course, this one is a bit young, even for me. But those black, penetrating eyes.

She lit a one-hour stick of incense. In an hour Hideyori and his party would be far away. It would be time to dig up old Squint-Eyes, if he were still alive.

It was the hour of the ox, the blackest part of the night. Taniko went to her chamber in the women’s house, tended by sleepy maidservants she had come to know on previous visits to the manor. She had a charcoal brazier brought in to warm the room and wrapped herself in as many robes and quilts as she could find. But she could not sleep. She lit an oil lamp and settled down with The Tale of the Hollow Tree given her over a year ago by Akimi.

Strange, she thought, that of all the women she had met at Court her closest friend should be Akimi, Domei’s mistress. It had begun with the incident of the dog, and after that, as they talked, she had found she could share thoughts with Akimi as she had never been able to do with another woman. Although Taniko would never have said so, the Empress was a rather dull person, the other women of the Court even more so. Taniko’s career as a lady-in-waiting would have been unbearable without Akimi.

And now, thought Taniko, I am in flight from Domei with Akimi’s help, and comforting myself with a book Akimi gave me.

It was two years since her marriage to Horigawa. She found the prince as repulsive as ever, but his conjugal visits were, happily, infrequent. He seemed to want a wife mainly because a man in his position was expected to have one or more wives. While it must be bad karma that had afflicted her with a husband like Horigawa, she had learned not to consider herself uniquely unfortunate. Many other women had unappealing husbands. Perhaps most did. Rebirth as a woman was probably a punishment for misdeeds in a previous life.

Still, there was much pleasure in her life. Living in the Imperial Palace most of the time, serving the Empress, she felt close to the centre of things, where she had always wanted to be. The letters she translated for Horigawa brought her news of the fabled land of China. Horigawa’s close ties with the Takashi enabled her to watch Sogamori’s rise to power and also afforded occasional glimpses of the splendid Kiyosi. All in all, it was an exciting life for a young woman of fifteen.

There was, of course, the horrid possibility of her becoming pregnant by Horigawa. But she faithfully followed the precautions her mother had taught her, and anyway, she doubted that Horigawa’s seed had any life in it. Neither of his earlier wives, she learned, had ever conceived.

One thing was missing, though. In dreams and in waking reveries there would often appear a very tall young man with red hair and strange, grey eyes. In a way, the memory was sweet. It was good to know that once in her life she had held the strong body of such a man in her arms. But it was unbearably sad to think that she would never know such joy again.

If only she had fully given herself to Jebu. Horigawa had hardly seemed to notice or care whether she was a virgin. Now she might never know what it was like to have such a beautiful man inside her. And Jebu had seemed to know so much about a woman’s body. What exquisite pleasures he might have given her if she had permitted him the final intimacy. What marvellous memories she might have now.

When she thought of what she had lost, apparently for ever, tears filled her eyes.

The river that flowed through the hills above the manor was frozen, and she missed the sounds of the waterfall and the mill wheel, which usually furnished a background for her reading. Instead, from a distance rose the ringing sound of shovels biting into hard, cold earth. She and Horigawa and the others on the estate were simply waiting, waiting for the Muratomo. She wondered what he meant the pit for. Was he going to kill himself?

Reading by lamplight tired her eyes, and she blew out the lamp and tried to sleep. She lay awake on her futon, frightened, wondering what danger was coming their way, wondering what was happening in Heian Kyo. Was Jebu involved? Thinking of Jebu, she imagined herself in his arms. She thought about him and talked with him in her mind. Calmed by the fantasy, she fell asleep.

The lookout, half-dead from a freezing night spent in the hills, rode into the yard shortly after sunrise. A party of armed men was on the way. Horigawa emerged from his hall wearing an old black kimono. Summoning Taniko, he headed for the guard building. Behind the building, where it could not be seen from the main houses or the gateway to the estate, two men had dug a deep, square hole. Puzzled, Taniko watched as Horigawa ordered a ladder lowered into the pit and then climbed down.

Looking up from the pit at his bewildered servants, Horigawa said, “Any of you who reveals my whereabouts will wish you had never been born.” He glared up at Taniko. “Any of you.” Taniko felt her face grow hot with anger. The offensive old toad.

He lay down in the pit. Taniko peered over the edge. He had the bamboo tube in his hand, holding it to his mouth. He drew a white silk cloth from his kimono sleeve and spread it over his face.

“This is madness,” Taniko said.

“It is a device others have used. I am certain they will never find me. Fill the pit. Bury me.”

The pit was filled in long before the Muratomo riders came to the gate. Following Taniko’s directions, men spread gravel over the surface to hide the freshly turned earth. Only the tip of the breathing tube showed above the gravel, unnoticeable unless one were aware of it.

We have no way of knowing whether the other end is in his mouth or not, thought Taniko. He may be dying even now. She suppressed the thrill of hope that thought gave her. She wanted, as best she could, to do her duty to her husband.

The head of the guards came up to her. “A party of twenty-four samurai is approaching,” he said. “If they are Muratomo, shall we fight them?”

“That would be an utter waste,” said Taniko. “His Highness has hidden himself so that it will not be necessary for you to fight to protect him. Resistance would only tell them that he must be somewhere on the manor. Let them in, be hospitable. Send their leader to my quarters.”

Going to the women’s building, she ordered her maidservants to arrange the wall screens to create a spacious audience chamber. At one end of the room they set a screen of state whose curtains were decorated with a design of snow-covered mountains.

She heard horses and cries in the courtyard, and a moment later a warrior’s heavy tread on the steps of the women’s house. A young man’s voice spoke to her maidservants.