The mistress was dressed for labor, in simple pants and jacket, but even these were fine. Samwan was one of the lucky ones: a firstborn child who inherited an islet from her landed mother or father. “Mistress Samwan,” Bailey said as she relinquished her skiff to a hoda, “you look wonderful.” Samwan smiled. “Oh Bailey, one is dressed for labor.” As she led Bailey into the compound, women waved— Samwan's half-sisters and full sisters, aunts, grandmothers. The compound filled with a chorus of Bailey's name, the human name without t's, k's, or, heaven forbid, zh's. The grounds were baked hard, though the rainy season was only one week past. Under her hat, Bailey squinted into the glare of the day wishing for sunglasses. Perhaps she would put the concept out and see what the industrious hoda might devise. Amidst darting children, the yard teemed with work as women dug trenches to rebury ceramic water pipes exposed by the erosions of the river. In addition, Samwan was reconstructing her generator hut, where a new engine was being installed, driven by her household's hydrowheels in the Puldar, here in this land where people had no concept of public utilities.
