1458 BCE, Thebes
The lamp smoke hangs low this morning, caught under the painted ceiling, and the oil on my hands has not taken the ache from the knuckles. Outside, I can hear work beginning long before the court is ready to admit the day: sandals on stone, a hammer somewhere far off, barges moving on the river. They tell me to rest. They tell me the swelling is nothing. Then they look away when I ask which names were cut yesterday and which will be left standing. I know how men arrange obedience once a woman’s breath shortens. The reed is light, yet my fingers cramp around it before the first line is done. On the table are sealings, temple accounts, and sketches for reliefs not yet carved deep enough to survive spite. I have held Egypt in my own name and in another’s; soon they will pretend neither was true, and the chisels have already begun to think ahead.
