The Look

"Where is the slave of Fonce?" The woman that said those words stood in the middle of the wagons and was clearly speaking to me. She was diminutive, in stature, but not in presence. Her voice was soft, but held the weight of authority. Her movements were the silent tread of one needing to neither make announcement, nor call attention to herself. I had even snuck a look under the wagon at the resting sleen, wondering if he had roamed off and not noticed the arrival. His wide mouthed yawn assured me that the woman's visit was not an out of the ordinary event, and I offered her a welcoming smile while I told her I was the Master's slave.

She gave me a look. That look. 'The' look. A look like I had briefly caught on Master Fonce's face earlier at the stream, shortly before I entered the stream. I had a thought perhaps they were related, family of some sort. I felt the look, and I recalled it in clearer depth not so long ago. I did not fully catch it when Brave Warrior Fonce wore it. I am, admittedly, a little bit wrapped up in swooning and simply relishing the fact of seeing Him. I also am not very well versed in His silent language, but I am trying to learn. I had been, and still was, a bit confused about the whole thing. I wasn't sure if He had simply been acting the youthful scamp that I sometimes see flickering in the planes of His face, much like my cousin and his friends would do. I had been a bit embarrassed by the whole thing, but could have easily laughed with the good natured humor of it all, if not for that look. It had left me with the rankling suspicion that He didn't care for something in the midst of it all.

There was only one way that I knew how to find out, and that was to ask Him. I was just in the process of preparing for that, having returned to the wagons dripping wet still. There had been quite a few free woman around, and I decided it would be wise to dress in the sack cloth shift before seeking Him out again. I had not cut or altered it much from it's original shapeless form, except to add a leather braided strip to serve as a belt. The whole purpose had been, as I understood it, to be modest around the women. My damp skin did little to help that modesty, clutching the fabric to it like hot breath roaming over flesh and leaving a fresh bloom of reaction in its wake. My hair still dripped, leaving darker tan to follow the inky strand's tips at the small of my back. There were obvious points of interest that revealed my womanly nature. I had tried to survey my shadow's reflection to make sure I had a somewhat groomed appearance. Whether it served me well with the Mistress standing there I couldn't say, but I hoped so.

There was this air of expectation hanging in the occasional nudge of breeze. I felt the need to find other answers to the Mistress's question. I told her I hadn't seen Red in a while, or Pink...ever...for that matter. I wondered, instantly as Red had mentioned, were they all in the Color Wagon now? It was difficult to tell what passed behind the eyes of the Mistress as she processed the information, then held out a large square basket. Inside were the softest looking locks and fiber I had seen in a long long time. I almost snatched it from her in my excitement, and eagerly peppered her with questions. What kind of wool was it? Did it take to dye well? Could I use it? Were there hand carders around anywhere?

She gave me 'the look'.