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Five days. Csoda’s finger drew a line across four other marks he had created in a light coat of dust on the arm of his chair. The red haired woman stood behind him. Her hands gently dabbed a cloth coated in a cooling medicine against the jagged cuts on his shoulder, neck and back. Injuries he most likely obtained in the arena when the bull pushed him into the ground.
Her name was Eir. She pronounced it, along with most of her words, with a slight melodic lilt and a delicate roll of the tongue that often made him unintentionally smile. He had ignored the other women. He knew they were slaves and their attentions made him uncomfortable. But Eir, even though she too was a slave, seemed different.
Her mannerisms stemmed from pure kindness. Her attention felt healing and, despite his atte
