Counted with the Stars

Bethany House Publishers

1st Day of Akhet
Season of Inundation
1447 BC

The sound of my knock on the wooden chamber door echoed in the pit of my stomach. Shira opened the door, but the Hebrew girl refused to meet my eyes. Two streaks of fur, one black and one gray, fled the room — even the cats knew enough to escape.

"Is that Kiya?" My mistress's sharp voice raised the hair on the back of my neck. "It had better be."

Tightening my grip on the water jug I carried — my only shield — I drew a deep breath as I stepped past Shira and over the threshold.

Tekurah crossed her bedroom in four swift strides to tower over me. "Where have you been? You held up this entire household all morning."

What an exaggeration. I abandoned the temptation to try and explain the throng of people, animals, and merchant booths clogging the city today. Pushing my way through the crowds during festival preparations had proved almost impossible, especially carrying a jar full of water from the canal. Besides, Tekurah was never at a loss for reasons to reprimand me.

With practiced obedience I mumbled, "Forgive me, mistress."

My show of humility did nothing to placate her. She thrust the ebony handle of a fan toward my face while accusing me of deliberate delay. I flinched. She might actually strike me this time.

She threw her hands in the air. "Why do I have to put up with such a worthless slave?" She growled like one of her cats and then continued her tirade. I didn't bother to listen. I had heard all of this before and doubtless would again.

Jaw locked and mind numb, I waited for the end of her diatribe. Instead I focused on the intricacies of the painted mural on the wall. The lush scene depicted the glorious paradise of the afterlife, where gods and men traveled together in gilded boats on the sparkling blue waters of the eternal Nile. The vivid colors were striking, but they were nothing compared to my brother Jumo's masterful artwork.

Shira's posture snagged my attention. The Hebrew girl stood in front of the open window, wrapped in sunlight, head down and eyes closed — submissive as usual. Were her lips moving?

"And if you keep me waiting again" — Tekurah pointed the fan an inch from my nose — "I will hit you. Even the gods wouldn't fault me."

Bitter retorts bubbled up inside me, threatening to burst free. Silently, I prayed to Ra, Isis, and any other god who would listen, for the strength to keep my mouth shut. Sweat trickled in rivulets down my spine.

Tekurah drew a long breath through her nose, black eyes flashing. With another growl, she hurled the ebony fan toward the enormous bed in the center of the room, but it tangled in the sheer linen canopy and clattered to the floor. She stared at it, blinking, and then exhaled through gritted teeth. Hands on hips, she turned and stalked to her bathing chamber.

As Shira retrieved the fan, I breathed quiet thanks to the gods for such a brief scolding today. My sliding grip on the heavy earthen jug would not have held much longer.

Tekurah's bathing room was tiled floor to ceiling in whitewashed stone and decorated with lush palms and splendid scenes from the Nile — hippos, crocodiles, and ibises. My skin prickled at the chill in the room. I placed the jug on the floor next to the long stone bathing bench in the center of the room and flexed my relieved fingers. Shira added a few drops of rose oil from an alabaster bottle to the water as I uncovered the drain that emptied in