“Hurrem Sultan told me she would find me a match. And I want to know if you would look in the stars and see if that will come to pass”

Mist hangs over the distant hills and the air is still crisp, not yet velvety with warmth. Leonora has purchased a large tract of land just north of Tzfat for the sheep, paying an exorbitant amount to the Ottoman governor, though everyone knows that you can simply mark out a piece of land and take it.

But Papa taught her: let your business dealings be irreproachable, and she has always heeded his advice. To the north side of the tract, she had ordered for the Aleppo pine to be planted, to shield the sheep from the worst of the wind, but yesterday Eliyahu told her that if she wants their wool to grow thick and long, the flock needs to be exposed to bad weather. So now a dispatch must be sent to stop the order and placate the supplier.

She watches Yishai struggle up the incline toward her. When he reaches her, he is breathless.

“You spend too long with the abacus and the ink,” she comments.

“It is a steep hill.” He defends himself.

“True. Though it is not yet hot.”

“But the sun is bright.”

They are both argumentative this morning. She tries to soften the charged air between them.

“The most expensive sheep in the world,” she says. “The finest wool. Cloth that is all at once supple and soft and strong.”

Yishai shields his eyes from the sun and looks around, surveying the flock. “How did you do this?”