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"Sorry," I whisper. I lean over him, and find a stubble-free patch of cheek to kiss. "I'm getting up."
"Mm," he says.
"It's nothing. Don't worry."
The bed creaks as it loses my weight. I scoop up sandals and balance my charm box in the crook of an arm. At the curtain, I bunch the beads together so they won't rustle.
My husband lies still, and his snore is restarting.
In our courtyard, the shadow of the eastern wall covers everything, except our water charm at the tip of its reed pole. The sky is a flat, soft, morning blue. I think the day promises to be warmer than yesterday.
I tie my sandals, and notice there's a scuff on one heel. It has to be from last night, when I was holding my new-born niece, and not looking where I was walking.
From our chest, I lift out linen strips: light blue today like the sky. I wrap my loins and pin a strip in place. Dissatisfied, I pin it tighter, then wrap my breasts so tightly they ache. Today, my charms need to be close.
"Mother and Father," I say, and bow to their statues. "Welcome to the new day." Yesterday's offering of oil has gone. I pour new drops for them on their little clay feet. "We had dinner with Jon's brother and their children," I tell them. "The new baby does have Jon's eyes." I want to tell my parents of the warding charm, but I can't: it'll make it too real. "Well," I say and try to smile. "Well."
I know I'm hesitating.
At our west wall, I close the shutters against the coming warmth of the day. The tree we've trained there is starting to bloom. A brown bird lands on the uppermost branch, weighing down the thin wood so much I think it might snap. It's my bird, named after the destined I'm named for. Its morning song would be an omen, for a little of that Emily's unused destiny to be with me, but it stays silent.
I carry my box up to the roof and sit down on our prayer mat. Sunwards, the roofscape descends towards the city wall and the towers of the Dawn Gate. Singers dot the roof tops; but not many, it's still early. The song of the closest singer rises and falls on the morning air. No one sings with her yet.
I watch my charm box, waiting for the locking charms to take the sun; somehow the box is not its normal, comforting self. A sparkle grows within one charm, and then others catch the sunlight. Each charm blinks once before it darkens.
Three voices sing now. Two harmonize the Welcome together; they both have older women's voices. The third singer is a girl-child, and she sings two verses behind. She sits motionless, a rooftop in front of me, the palms of her hands held together above her head.
I love mornings like this, when a verse-gap in the Welcome awaits me. I accept their gift, raise my arms, and start my verse. We four become one in our welcome for God, and it lifts my heart.
When all our verses are sung, I bow to the sun, and touch charms to wish my box open. I pick out thongs, necklaces and bracelets, and smooth them on the song-mat, so no charm blocks another from God's light. In each charm, an eye sparkles its little fire, then fades.
I pick up a toe-ring and run my wishing finger over its tiny, rough stone. Today, I will follow the almanac properly. It's a day for dressing from toe charms up to hair charms, for the right details of blessings and wardings, all in the right order.
I add anklets, I tie and loop charms to my loin cloth. At my waist, I loosely tie a thong so its single, warding charm hangs against my skin below my navel. I knot charms at my chest, add necklaces to my neck, and earrings to my ear lobes.
When I reach my final hair pin, there are no singers left within hearing. God and I are alone, together, silent. I can hear my own breathing: it's shallow. My stomach feels empty.
I breathe in. "Dear God," I sing, my voice lower than before: for me and for God alone. I touch my hair pins and my ear rings. "I wish for your blessings," I sing. "For my sight, for my hearing, for my taste, for the gift of smelling flowers. I wish your blessings for my spirit."
My fingers move to my necklaces. "For my breath. For my sustenance." I touch the charms on the linen strip around my chest. "For the sound of my heart. For the strength of my arms. For the nimbleness of my fingers." I touch the charms on my loin cloth. "For my children's place. For my legs to walk and run. For feet to stand upon. Thank you God for your gifts."
I look into yellow light of dawn. Another singer starts in the distance: a man. I can't make out whether he sings the Welcome, or for his wardings and blessings.
I can't delay it any longer. "G…od," I start. "God, I wish your warding, for any ills that might come to me, of body and of spirit. Ward me, I pray of you." I touch the charms clipped in my hair. "Ward my senses, and my spirit." I move my fingers downwards. "Ward my heart. My breath. My sustenance." I hesitate. "Ward my c…children's place."
The single charm I've hung below my navel flashes into life and doesn't fade.
I touch it and wish the light to go away. It doesn't. It must be tangled with my wish for warding from harm.
"Oh… God," I whisper to the morning light.
"You've started without me?" Jon asks. There's a smile in my husband's voice that I can hear without seeing. "Something secret you're wishing for?"
I turn away from the sun. Jon hasn't dressed. He looks lovely, even sleepy faced and without a charm.
He sees my ward and his smile drops away. "What's that?" he asks.
"Hold me." I take shelter inside his open arms. "I love you," I say to his chest.
"What's wrong?" he whispers "The charm's a ward?"
"Yes."
He breathes in, hard. "For where?"
"My children's place. I'm… sorry."
"Sorry? What's there to be…?" He stiffens.
"I wanted it, Jon."
"Wanted?" He pulls away from me, and plucks up my face to look into his. He's lost color. "Emily, how could you?" His hand brushes at the skin above my charm. He steps back and scowls at my belly, as though something poisonous lives there. I think he'd kill it if he could.
"Jon…" I begin. He's blurring in my tears.
He pulls me back into his arms. "It won't be true," he says. "We'll sing tomorrow for a better omen. It's third time that's the charm."
"Jon, this is the third time."
***