To be honest, I didn't expect to be interrupted. My sojourns to the tops of the Dunes had been conducted alone as of late, not that Aminah was far too old to be interested in her mother's quiet contemplation. She'd gone off in search of the other children and her uncles, who were often kind enough to oblige her, even if it was only temporary. But there was no mistaking the soft shuh-shuh of hooves through the sand, and I crane my head around to look upon the golden girl as she approaches me.

I know her, although not well. I had made it a point upon being appointed Mira to learn the names and appearances of all that dwelt within the Dunes, which had been one small triumph in a sea of failures. I knew that she was by Maslakhat and of Merwerit, and an orphan just as much as Geçersiz was, although her circumstances were slightly different. Whereas there was no doubting the fates of Maslakhat and Sidika, this girl's mother had simply disappeared, leaving behind no word that I could tell.

It broke my heart a little, although I hate to admit that my sympathy for her ebbs the moment her pert mouth opens. I turn toward her and dip my head in greeting, but do not speak until she is quite finished with her bold suggestion. I can feel the frown on my lips, a remnant from my time in Mahgrib, and I work to clear it before I respond to her suggestion.

What I want to do is scold her for her impertinence in suggesting such a thing. That I, as a married woman, as the Mira of all things, should solicit the attention of another man in order to enliven my life. The very thought of it made me sick, my stomach flip-flopping at the magnitude of such a betrayal. To do such a thing in Mahgrib was punishable by a great number of things, not the least of which were beatings and the stripping of status; and while I knew the Dunes were no Mahgrib, the very thought of hurting my beloved Husband so for such a frivolous reason was ludicrous.

But she is an orphan, I remind myself before the words come out of my mouth too sharply. She is alone and without instruction. It is only right of her to question her place in the world.

"Perhaps," I say a little too sharply, my gaze immediately cutting away from the filly. "But I am no Teke." My lips purse together for a moment as I gather my words, wishing, not for the first time, that mothering came more easily to me. I saw the ease through which Naz had navigated the raising of Shanti and had hoped to lean on her for my daughter's upbringing, but the fates had divided us soon after, leaving me to figure it out on my own.

My gaze draws back to the girl after a pause, and I draw in a breath to steady my emotions. "For me to do so would shame my husband, Sarisi. And so," I pause, my lips curling into a wan smile. "Even if there were a boy around to flirt with, I could do no such thing to him because I love him."

Again, I fall quiet after my words, suddenly awkward with the weight of them. What was I thinking? She was still a child, still freshly orphaned. I sigh softly and shift my body so that I can face her, my brown clouding in concern as I attempt to read her face. I do not know her well enough to understand the full depth of the emotions that skim just beneath the surface of her skin, but I wish I could. I wish that I was better equipped to live up to the weight of my title without feeling as though I were floundering through every interaction. "How are you, Sarisi?"