As he moves, his tzitzis flap gently; they are dyed green, and she wonders why, for she has only seen tzitzis made of yellowing wool

IT is a sticky night, heavy with a summer storm that has threatened for days, but that has not yet appeared. The odalisques lie sleepless, but a heavy silence drapes over them, as if the damp air has stolen their words as well as their slumber. That night, Bilhah dares herself to go back.

She brings up the memories, but it is not easy, for they have been covered over by a thornbush of bitterness. Think of the man — that harbinger of hope — not with anger. Think of him — the man whom the world greeted with awe and love — not with a sense of betrayal. Think of him — and do not smell fire and burning flesh, but the fragrance of incense.

Just remember. Remember.

She is eight years old. She sits in the corner of the workshop, the printing press clattering and banging in the middle. She has a pile of pebbles on her right, and one by one, she dips them into ink. She is not allowed to move.

Her knees are pulled up against her chest, and she is allowed to change position: legs straight out in front, legs crossed, legs pulled up so she can pretend that her legs are not her legs at all, but someone — a mother? — whom she wraps her arms around.

She must not get up, because last night, she did not come home before dark, and the servants complained to Papa. This has no justice. It is winter. Darkness falls in the middle of the day. Had it been summer, she would not have been trapped there at all, staining the pebbles, leaving them to dry, wiping her fingers on the ground to remove the ink.

A noise. The door opening, closing. She looks up.

A stranger. She looks at his hands for the bundle of parchment or paper, but she is distracted by his clothing. A sea-green turban and robe, a thick gold chain upon which hangs a pendant. A man like that should be tall and broad and fat, for surely he has some money. But his face. It is swallowed by his turban. He has great big cheekbones that make him look like some beggar who has not eaten for weeks. She wonders if he will fall down from hunger. She wonders if she should order food to be brought — some soup, perhaps — and then he will be grateful to her and save her from Papa.

She blinks. As he moves, his tzitzis flap gently; they are dyed green, and she wonders why, for she has only seen tzitzis made of yellowing wool.