32
It was late afternoon before Jara had the chance to practice. But she had been rehearsing it for hours in her mind.
As she dipped the day’s laundry in the stream. As she beat it against the rocks. Imagining how she would speak. How she would walk. How she would mentally step into being Bradamante and wear her like a set of clothes.
“Get me that,” she imagined saying. “Where’s Rinaldo? Hand me my sword.”
She would walk with her chin level, her eyes looking out ahead instead of at the ground.
“You there—what do want? Take a message. Bring me my horse.”
Jara listened to her new voice in her head as she wrung out the laundry and draped it over wooden racks. She sounded so strong and commanding. She liked it. She only hoped she could sustain it once she was back among the men.
At last
