Papa. Leonora. Eliyahu. She rests her head on her hands. How is it that the three are tangled together now?

Bilhah stands for a few minutes, staring at Yannai’s face. His eyes have fluttered closed. She would be afraid for his life, but the blankets move up and down steadily.

And his skin….

She is reminded of one Yasemin’s first lessons to her in the Room of Words. “When you receive a letter, the first thing you do is take the parchment over to the window and hold it up to the midday sun. That way you see traces of the ink that was rubbed off the parchment, to make room for the new words.”

Now, Yannai’s skin appears thin and fragile, but there is something else she can discern, underneath. Like words rubbed off a parchment, his skin is a map of both suffering and tranquility.

Where will all of this end?

She should be out, searching for Eliyahu. Instead, she finds a stool and sets it gently near the bed. She sits down and watches him breathing gently.

Intervene on behalf of Leonora, he told her just a few moments before. Allow her the comfort of dying in her own bed, with her children around her.

If only it was so simple.

Papa.

Leonora.

Eliyahu.

The three faces come into her head, one after the other. Three sets of eyes.

Papa’s — dark wells of violence that trap her breath in her chest and fill her with dread.

Leonora. Battlefield eyes that gleam with anger, then sorrow, then something indefinable, as they suddenly turn inwards and do not see anything at all.

And Eliyahu. When they talk, they walk together, so that his eyes rest on a stone, then up at a shape in the clouds, then turn to a pomegranate tree, the fruits blooming. But every so often, he turns to look at her, though she could not say what color his eyes are, only that….

That what?

That whatever she says, he will receive and honor and safeguard.

Papa. Leonora. Eliyahu.

She rests her head on her hands.

How is it that the three are tangled together now?