Voices in the Valley

Dawn light slipped through the high window, turning dust into floating gold. Nefret ground lapis lazuli against stone, the rhythm as familiar as breathing. Scrape, turn, scrape—the sound echoed off limestone walls.

Merit stood behind her, wrists held at perfect right angles. Her shadow fell across the practice cartouche. Nefret's brush hovered.

"See how the ankh curves?" Merit's voice carried the cadence of prayer. "That line carries breath itself."

Nefret's thumb and forefinger rubbed together, testing invisible paint. The motion came unbidden. She corrected the curve, feeling how the brushstroke curved like wind.

The pigment jars glowed on their clay shelves—ochre like sunset, malachite like the Nile. Each color spoke of eternity. Each shade promised the afterlife would remember their work.

But Nefret's eyes drifted to the corner.

An empty grain sack slumped against the wall, burlap wrinkled like old skin. The third moon without payment. Her fingers stilled on the brush handle.

"Master Merit." She paused, waiting for courage to dry. "When will—"

Merit's answer came wrapped in history. "The third year of Thutmose, the river ran low." Her hands moved to correct Nefret's grip. "But patience brought the flood."

The words felt hollow. Nefret tilted her head, examining her mother from a different angle. Merit's fingers trembled where they touched the brush.

Outside, voices rose in the square. Not the usual morning chatter. Something sharper.

Nefret set down her brush. The wet bristles left a dark mark on the water bowl's rim. Merit's wrists remained at right angles, but her eyes closed.

"What does the morning teach?" Merit's voice cracked on the last word.

The workshop smelled of stone dust and lapis powder—night sky ground to nothing. Nefret's fingertips wore that blue like a stain. Like a question she couldn't wash away.

The voices outside grew louder. Children crying. Neighbors gathering.

Merit opened her eyes. For a moment, neither spoke. The empty grain sack sat between them like a failed promise, and the sacred symbols on the practice wall seemed to watch.

Nefret stood. Lapis powder dusted her linen tunic. Her mother didn't stop her.