She put on one layer, then wrapped a wide strap across her waist, crossing it around her breasts, then back again, tying it tight. Dirina struggled to sit up on her side of the cot, where Pas was still sleeping. For a moment her sister simply sat there unmoving in the dawn light through the small, high, shuttered window, like one of the sea-sprite statues on the white terraces of Munasee’s governor’s mansion that spanned the great canal. Amarta paused a moment. Dirina was beautiful, she realized. Beautiful and so sad. No surprise, there, though. If Amarta let herself, she had plenty to be sorrowful about, too. At least Dirina didn’t have to entertain men anymore to keep them fed. She should be happy enough about that, but she was not. Grieving Kusan. Grieving Kosal. Amarta had no sympathy for either. They had both lost Kusan, had both lost another place they might in time have called home and people who had made the mistake of caring for them. Like Nidem. As for Kosal—at least her sister had had such sweetness for a time.
