Bathsheba by Angela Hunt

“Others demand his attention, too. I had to wait.”
    “Oh.” She spoke in a quiet, wounded tone. My sharp reply had hurt her, so again my conscience smote me.
    “Elisheba, I am sorry.” I lifted my sticky hands and met her gaze straight on. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Please forgive me for being short with you. I am exhausted.”
    “Of course you are.” Elisheba stepped forward to squeeze my shoulders, then moved to the corner where Amaris slept. “How is our little bird faring today? I know she slept—even in my dreams I heard her snoring.”
    As Elisheba woke Amaris and helped her roll her sleeping mat, I patted my dough into a rectangle and set it on the coals smoldering in our fire pit. I washed my hands in a basin and looked around, eager for something else to do. If I could stay busy with ordinary things, maybe I would be able to convince myself that nothing had happened. The king had stolen only a few hours of my life, so if I putmy troubling thoughts aside, I ought to be able to resume living at the point where my ordinary life had been interrupted. I would fill our pitchers at the well while the air was still cool. I would speak to the other women and laugh at their stories. I would milk the goat and make cheese. I would take mature cheeses to the market and haggle with visitors to Jerusalem. In time, if I kept working and talking and haggling, I would forget all about my encounter with the king.
    “Elisheba . . .” I pulled a scarf from a basket and wrapped it around my hair. “I am going to fetch water.”
    “I’ll go for you,” she answered. “As soon as I help Amaris dress—”
    “I would like some fresh air,” I assured her, lifting an empty pitcher. “I’ll be back soon.”
    With the pitcher on my hip, I stepped outside and again followed the road to the well. How many times had I walked this path with a smile on my lips? Until last night I had generally been a happy bride. I’d experienced a few frustrations, of course, but I had celebrated my love for my husband with every bucket I pulled to the surface. I worked eagerly, happy to be serving my family, and smiled “me too” smiles at other women with husbands and families.
    How could I face Uriah after last night? Would I ever be able to think of him without a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach?
    I reached the well, waited for another woman to finish filling her jar, then caught the bucket. Lowering it into the well, I stared down the length of the rope, and every detail came flooding back—the king’s scent, the oily feel of his beard against my cheek, the drops of perspiration that dampened the hair on his chest . . .
    I groaned and closed my eyes. No matter how sincerely I wanted to forget, I couldn’t think of Uriah with bruises on my wrists and the smell of the king’s perfume on my skin.
    “Well met, Bathsheba.” I lifted my head to see one of Elisheba’s friends approaching, her brow raised. “A new tunic? The color suits you very well.”
    Abruptly realizing that I hadn’t noticed the color, I glanced at my sleeve. The fabric was royal blue, a shade far too rich for my station. I gave the woman a polite smile and another lie. “My grandfather is most generous.”
    The woman bobbed her head in appreciation. “You should wear that color more often, though I’ve never seen anyone but the king’s women wear it.”
    I tried to smile again, but my lips wobbled precariously and my gorge rose. I turned to the side and vomited, then stood, panting and weak-kneed, as my companion stared with wide eyes. “Are you ill? Should I fetch Elisheba?”
    I pressed my hand to my forehead as fresh memories of the king’s burning gaze rose in my memory. “Please. Tell her to come quickly.”

    “I need a bath. Please.”
    Elisheba chuckled and helped me sit on a small stool by the front door. “You need to sleep; that’s why you are sick. But Amaris is at her friend’s house, so you’ll have lots of time for