Free Kit by Marina Fiorato

green finger. ‘I will mix an alloy in with the silver. Else it will tarnish and your women’s parts will turn as green as my fingers.’
    And … she thought of her nights in the hammock, hearing those rhythmic rubbings and groans. ‘Can a man do it … by himself?’
    ‘Not the act, of course. A man is not made to twist like a serpent and reach his own hole, though some would if they could. No; when there aren’t any holes to be had, or a mouth, a clasped hand will do.’
    Kit digested this. ‘But if men lie with men, then why wasn’t I … molested on board ship?’
    ‘Because of the consequences. The English Navy has regulations against sodomy. If two men are found bedding together, they are lashed together and thrown overboard.’
    Kit swallowed.
    ‘Would you like a bath?’ asked Maria, as if they’d just been talking of the weather. ‘I’ll get the servants to fill you a bath.’
    Kit forgot the ways of men. ‘You have a bath?’
    Kit luxuriated upstairs in a small square chamber hung with green damask, and lit by a constellation of candles. She lowered herself into a large silver bathtub with animal’s feet. It was full to the brim with warm milky water and floating with lavender heads. She scrubbed every inch of herself, removing two weeks of grime. She had never appreciated before the sheer simple pleasure of being clean. She washed her hair with the lavender, and soaked until she dozed. The bliss, the utter bliss of being immersed and caressed by the warm water, of being naked for the first time in two weeks, of being free from the prison of the greasy and besmattered uniform she’d come to detest. She must have stayed there for hours dozing and drifting, till the water was no more than tepid. When the door opened Kit instinctively covered her breasts, but it was only Maria bearing a covered jug – Maria, who had not only seen, but measured, her most intimate parts. She lowered her hands and smiled.
    ‘It is done,’ said the silversmith, ‘but the metal must cool slowly so the alloy does not crack. Take your leisure.’ Maria poured the contents of the jug into the bath and the hot water refreshed the bath once more. Then she knelt, took a linen cloth, dipped it in the bath and began to rub Kit’s shoulders. The moon watched at the window. ‘That is the same moon that bade me farewell in Dublin.’ Kit spoke almost to herself, dreamily, not expecting Maria to understand, too sleepy to explain. ‘The moon watches over all women,’ said Maria. ‘She controls the tides and so the cycles of our own bleedings. And silver is the moon’s metal,’ she went on, washing Kit’s shoulders rhythmically. ‘The emblem of my house is the silver arrows, the arrows of Diana, the huntress. Silver is a woman’s metal too. Mirrors, picture frames, arrows, daggers, jewellery. Reliquaries for the Virgin.’ The cloth made soothing circles on Kit’s flesh. ‘These are female things. That is why we use silver for those love toys for women such as I showed you. I do not make mail or swords or helms; the steelmakers cast the rings for armour or the blades for battle. Silver understands us; our femininity, our vanity, our changeability, our dreams and desires.’ Maria’s voice, sing-song and sibilant and soft, was making Kit sleepy, and the motion of the cloth on her shoulders made her shiver with pleasure though the water was so warm. Dreamily, she watched the moon fracture and ripple on the surface of the water through half-closed eyes, but she knew she must break the spell and ask a dangerous question. ‘When you spoke of women loving women, were you talking of yourself?’
    The cloth stopped in its progress. Started again. ‘Yes.’
    Kit steeled herself. ‘Just how much will this silver prick you are making cost me?’
    Maria’s lips pursed a little, and she almost, almost smiled. She wrung out the cloth with her discoloured hands and laid it neatly on the side of the bath. ‘There is no price. Unlike