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What are you doing?’ Mazhg hissed as reached up to grab at her sister’s wrist. She was not quick enough. Zagra had unfolded herself from where she sat on the ground and started across the small space between her and the odd man. The odd man who somehow knew the song the Lady had sung for her and Mazhg when they were little.
‘Yes, yes, that how it goes,’ she coaxed him. ‘Know words?’ she asked sitting down cross-legged close enough to reach out and touch his leg lightly.
Mazhg crept closer to the pair, amazed at the boldness of her sister. What did Zagra see in this strange fellow that she would trust him even a little?
Ah Bare eth thar en nuu ee I arr...
Zagra’s voice rasped out the mis-shapen sounds, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sang them. ‘The Lady say them about a pretty-pretty Lady, live far away, cross great water.’
She watched Rôg’s face for some glimmer of recognition. ‘You ‘member now?’
From the waistband of her raggedy breeches she fetched out a small object and leaning forward she held it out to him on the palm of her hand. It was of some sort of metal, quite tarnished and encrusted with much dirt. Through the layers of grime, though, some small stone set in it glittered hazily in the light.
‘This was for her hair...the Lady’s. Gave to us,’ Zagra offered shyly, nodding toward her sister. Mazhg’s face softened a little, the old memory rising of one small tender moment in the midst of their harsh lot.
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