Naamah's Blessing

woeful. “My mother was naughty, wasn’t she?”
    “Oh, dear heart!” I suppressed the urge to hug her, knowing I was far too much a stranger still. “Your mother was a great many things. Sometimes, yes, she was naughty. But she was kind and generous and brave, too.”
    “She was?”
    “She was,” Bao confirmed. “I did not know her so well as Moirin, but I know this is true.”
    “How?” Desirée demanded.
    “When you are older, I will tell you the whole story,” I said. “It is a story for grown-ups. But I will tell you this. I was there when your mother learned she was going to have a baby. You.” I laid one hand on my belly. “And she was happy, so very happy. That is why she named you Desirée, so you would always know that she loved you and longed for you.”
    She looked down again. “Is my father coming to see me today?”
    I glanced at the nurse, who shook her head. “Not today, your highness. You know the King is a very, very busy man.”
    “
You
told the steward my father could see you when he wanted.” Desirée gave me an accusatory look.
    I had no doubt that Jehanne had been as precocious as her daughter; I wondered if she’d been as observant, too. “So I did,” I replied calmly. “Bao and I have come from very far away, and we have much news of foreign lands to tell him.”
    She shook her head, silver-gilt ringlets dancing. “He never wants to see me.” Her fingers plucked at the beadwork of her gown again. Two seed pearls came loose and rolled across the floor, accompanied by an indrawn breath of dismay from her nurse. Desirée flashed her a look at once guilty and defiant. “I don’t care! I don’t like this gown anyway! It prickles!”
    “It’s all right, young highness.” The nurse sounded resigned.
    “It’s because I’m naughty, isn’t it?” Desirée patted the hem, trying to smooth it. “That’s why he doesn’t come.”
    It had the sound of a punishment she’d heard voiced many times before. I glanced at the nurse again, and saw her flush with guilt and resentment; and then at Bao, who shook his head.
    “I am good at entertaining with tricks and jests, Moirin,” he murmured. “This is beyond me.”
    Settling back onto my heels, I let my hands fall into a contemplative
mudra
and breathed slowly, thinking. “Your father loved your mother very, very much, young highness. He loved all the things that were good in her—and even the things that were naughty, too. Every day, he misses her, and it makes him sad. When he sees those things in you…” I touched my chest. “It makes his heart hurt more. It does not mean he doesn’t love you.”
    It was a difficult concept for a child to grasp, and a heavy burden to bear. I watched her wrestle with it, praying that I’d not overstepped my bounds or overburdened the child.
    At length, Desirée cocked her head. “Why do you do this?” she asked, doing her best to emulate the
mudra
I had taken. “Is it a game?”
    “Ah.” I smiled. “You might call it a thinking-game, young highness. Each shape you make with your hands is a thought, or… or a wish, or a prayer.”
    “What kind of prayer?”
    I folded my hands together, steepling my fingers. “A prayer for peace.” I shifted my hands, one above the other, forming an open circle. I could not achieve the gestures with the grace with whichAmrita had taught me, but I did my best. “For wisdom.” I fanned my hands before me, interlocking my thumbs. “A prayer that the gods might speak clearly to me.”
    She looked interested. “It’s a funny kind of game.”
    “It’s a thinking-game,” I said. “Not the kind you win or lose. It helps you to think and wish and pray better, that’s all.”
    Her small fingers fumbled through an approximation of the poses I’d shown her. “Will you teach it to me?”
    I inclined my head to her. “It would be my honor, young highness.”
    During a long winter on the Tatar steppe, where I had first begun to learn patience, I’d learned, too, that young children relished games of hands and words and thoughts. For another hour, with Bao’s helpful aid, I taught the
mudras
I had learned from my lady Amrita to my lady Jehanne’s daughter. The three of us sat cross-legged on the floor of the nursery, arranging our hands and fingers in contemplative poses and gravely discussing their meaning.
    When I sensed that the elder nursemaid, whose name was Nathalie Simon, was growing restless at the interruption in the princess’