Aviva
The meeting hall is crowded from wall to wall. I hug one of the walls, my back pressed flat against it as I try to blend in with the dark stone. Everyone is merry as they walk between tables laden with food and drink. Everyone in attendance has worn their finest fabrics and beads. Many of the single, of age, young women have truly gone all out, in fact.
I cross my arms under my less-than-ample breasts and tap my nails against the long gold chains looping around my neck, inlaid with multicolored beads of turquoise and amethyst.
The necklace is one of the few things I have left of my mother except for Shosanna and Lora. Mercy didn’t want the necklace because turquoise is a stone rather than a gleaming gem, and amethyst “washes her out,” or so she says. In fact, she didn’t want muc
