Miss Imogen places her bow on the ground, one foot sliding over it protectively, and receive the doll gently in her hands. She looks at the small girl before her, an innocent in a world of complexities. She gives it a small hug, trying to put on an expression of compassion and gratitude in lieu of a Chultan thank-you.
The child's eyes are wide, almost adoring, and Miss Imogen has to hold back a tear. "This is all she has," she says needlessly.
In a gift culture, one must always accept. There is to be no pretence of not receiving, no false modesty. She asks the girl, "Does she have a name?" hoping that someone else will translate for her. She means the doll, but as the question is answered, she gets both the girl's and the doll's names. Whatever response she gets is sealed into her memory. "Thank you."
Miss Imogen removes one of the combs holding her hair in place, causing her tight bun to cascade down her back. It was carved from tortoiseshell and there were ones like it in every market stall, no doubt. But this one was hers, and it came from overseas, and the little girl's hair was just long enough to hold it in place. In a gift culture, one must always reciprocate. Miss Imogen's hands reach out, and pull the girl's matted hair out of her eyes, and pins it back. The girl's dark brown eyes smiled back.
Miss Imogen stands, and gives the doll one more affectionate hug, before finding a place for her on her quiver, so that it looks like she's riding it. Then she turns around and leaves.
