Theocharista was lying with her head on the monk’s thigh, listening to her stories about Hecate, and the monastery, and anything else she could think to say when Mayta reached the top step. She laid there with her eyes closed listening to the monk talk until the familiar presence of her caretaker made Theocharista open her eyes.
“Mayta,” Theocharista groggily exclaimed.
She tried rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the back of her hands but it was no use. It was passed the time when Theocharista normally stayed awake, and although the monk wasn’t the normal woman who rocked her to sleep, she was tired just the same. So, Theocharista lifted both of her arms up, fingers splayed, waiting for her Mayta. Bleary eyes blinked slowly as Theocharista fought to stay awake long enough to tell Mayta all about what she had learned.
Mayta stepped into the temple. She ignored the monk. Theocharista was more important. So she placed both her hands under Theocharista’s armpits and hefted her limp body up. Mayta tucked Theocharista’s face into her neck, clutching her tiny body close until Mayta was absolutely certain that Theocharista was unharmed. Theocharista grabbed a loose lock of Mayta’s hair.
“Like clockwork,” the monk laughed.
Mayta didn’t respond. She looked down at the monk silently, trying to understand how she called Theocharista here. Was her influence strong enough to call all the reincarnations here? Or was this just a product of Theocharista being Theocharista? The monk looked harmless enough, her green robes reminiscent of the University’s uniform a few hundred years ago, but no matter how old she was the woman was a powerful practitioner. Mayta could smell it in the air around her. It was like smelling the breeze after a fresh storm. Once one knew what the smell meant it was completely unmistakable.
“Mayta I have so much to tell you,” Theocharista whispered. “Sister Pa told me so much.”
“Not now, Theocharista,” Mayta replied. “You can tell me in the morning.”
“But it is morning,” Theocharista said around a yawn.
“Don’t be contrary,” Mayta smiled. “We’re going to bed now.”
The noise Theocharista made was muffled by Mayta’s hair but it was unquestionably affirmative. As quickly as the fond gleam in Mayta’s eye came it went the second she regarded Sister Pa. She was still sitting on the floor observing the two of them with a self satisfied smile splitting her face in two. A sneer curled Mayta’s upper lip.
“I’ll speak with you later,” Mayta snapped.
Then she fled.
Back down the narrow stone steps, back across the town square, back up all the flights of university stairs until they were safely in Mayta’s room. Mayta tugged Theocharista’s boots off. They hit the floor one by one with a dull thud, but Theocharista breathed evenly, quietly muttering about something, undisturbed. Mayta undid the clasp of Theocharista’s cloak with one hand and draped it over a chair back. Then Mayta slid Theocharista under her covers and slipped in after her.
In her dark room at the University, Mayta clutched Theocharista close to her chest. Theocharista mumbled something about mothers as she nuzzled closer. Mayta could hear Theocharista's languid heart beat, feel the soft rise and fall of the young girl's body with her deep even breaths. She squeezed Theocharista tightly. With her Theocharista in her arms, Mayta fought the urge to look into the only semblance of instructions she had, the book filled with wisdom from every Mayta before her. She could do that in the morning.
In the most stern voice she could muster Mayta began to scold her oldest charge.
“This is not a reward,” Mayta said. “This is so I know where you are all night. When you wake tomorrow there will be a punishment for leaving the University. I will hear no arguments otherwise.”
The whine that left Theocharista’s throat was distinctly unhappy. Yet she curled closer to Mayta, enjoying the warmth of a mother and the safety of her arms. Tomorrow's problems could wait until tomorrow. So without a thought to what her punishment may be, Theocharista fell into a colorful dream filled sleep.
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