A girl goes from her father’s home to her husband’s. If she cannot live in either of those homes, what place does she have in the world?

Morning. Bilhah wakes not to the whistle of finches or the raucous cry of the blue jay bickering over worms, nor to the dull thud of the printing press, as the type is inked and the platen descends and a new page is printed.

Instead, voices. Women’s voices. The only woman’s voice at home is that of Rosa, the servant, and every word of hers is a screech.

Papa’s voice is always hoarse, and when he raises it, there is a grind in his throat. His voice and those of his workers, full-bodied and rough, as if they need to be sandpapered into smoothness, can always be heard from the workshop, located in the stable next to their home in Salonika. But that noise is low, and here there’s a shrillness that hurts her ears.

She blinks. Around her, women are rising from their sleeping mats, rolling them with a crack and a swish. But she lies, listening to the layer upon layer of voices, high and gentle and husky and all of them, all of them women.

Humming. Talking. A shriek, followed by laughter. Gentle chanting.

She struggles to pick out words she can understand, but it seems that she has come to the Tower of Bavel. How can they all speak to each other when they all sound so different? But then, if there are girls and women here from far and near, then surely there will be some Jews or Conversas?

Follow, observe, imitate. Wash, dress.

A rumble from the outside draws her to the window, and she sees trolleys and barrows piled high with rice and sacks of grain. Another is laden with tiny peaches, flushed orange and pink with ripeness. Her mouth suddenly aches for moisture and sweetness.

To the dining hall, where she eats cheese and bread — not too much, although it is soft and fresh; not too little, for she does not know when the next meal will be served, and what it will be.

Her eyes flit around the hall, watching, noticing, catching on to details — a hibiscus leaf pinned into hair, three women each wearing topaz rings. She is bewildered by the differences — hair of all shades, black and white-blonde and brownish-red; some wear half-veils, some full, and most wear their hair free. What are the rules here? And who makes them?