Free Cybele's Secret by Juliet Marillier Page B

On the far side of the slab, a small, capable-looking female clad in a shiftlike garment and sandals was administering a massage to a lady who lay on her stomach, eyes closed.
    “Here we sit awhile and sweat,” Irene said, seating herself on a bench and slipping out of her petamal in one movement to expose her ripely mature body, all lush curves and smooth bronze skin. Her dark eyes met mine. I saw it as a challenge and took off my own wrapping before sitting down beside her.
    “You have not been in a hamam before?” she asked me.
    “Never.”
    “It is quite significant in the lives of Turkish women, Paula. A visit to the hamam is not simply an opportunity to bathe. It is a social event, a highlight of the week. At the bathhouse, women can exchange their news, look over prospective daughters-in-law, enjoy the company of a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. Some stay all day.”
    “Really?” Clearly I had been missing quite a bit as a result of Father’s extreme caution over my personal safety.
    “After the sweat, we wash here in the hot room, and if you wish, Olena will provide the massage,” Irene said. “She has magic hands; I recommend it. There is a small, deep pool in the next chamber, not so hot. I like to immerse myself there before drying off. You will not find that in the public hamams; it is a refinement I chose to add. As a child, I swam in the ocean. I miss such freedoms. When we are dry, we take refreshments and chat. If you enjoy the experience, you must come back and repeat it whenever you wish.”
    “You’re very generous.”
    “Not at all. I am a strong supporter of opportunities for women, which places me severely out of step with the culture in which I live. It delights me to encounter a girl with such a thirst for knowledge. You deserve every bit of encouragement that comes your way, Paula. You remind me of myself as I once was.” She sighed, putting her hands behind her head and stretching out her long legs, feet crossed. It showed off her figure to startling advantage. I kept my eyes on the marble slab, where the masseuse had finished her work and was rearranging her supply of oils, soaps, and sponges. “I imagine young women have few opportunities in Transylvania,” Irene added.
    “In such a place, the opportunities must be found or made,” I said a little stiffly. “Fortunately for me and my sisters, our father saw the value in educating us.”
    “Your level of knowledge and your breadth of interest seem somewhat beyond what might be expected even for a young man of your background,” Irene observed. “Are all your sisters scholars?”
    “Not exactly. Jena studied mathematics. She works in the business, with her husband. When I’m at home, I teach Stela, who is only eleven. She’s quite clever. We’re making a start on Greek.”
    “A little sister, how sweet. Does she stay at home with your mother while you accompany your father?”
    “My mother is dead.”
    “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
    “I can’t really remember her; she died so long ago. While we are away, Stela is staying with Jena and Costi. They live next door. Though ‘next door’ is actually quite a long walk through the forest.”
    “And the other sisters? You said four.”
    “Iulia’s married with two children. And Tati…” This was always difficult, even though my sisters and I had practiced the half-truth over and over. “She lives a long way away. We hardly ever see her now.”
    “She wed a man from another land? A merchant, a traveler?”
    “Something like that.” I drew a deep breath. It was indeed hot in here. “May I ask you about your family?”
    “Of course.”
    “You seem very…independent. You mentioned your husband. Do you have children?”
    Irene threw back her head and laughed. “That is rather direct, Paula. No, no, I’m not offended. My husband is considerably my senior. He was a widower, a man with grownup sons, when his eye fell on me. A good match, so my friends told me,