A young man turned to pay the cabman. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. “No, no,” she cried.
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