Instinctively, Sindra pulled the blanket tight around her; having been so exposed to the whims of the weather, being dry and warm was something of a heavenly pleasure.
She sighed when he asked if she was a slave. She did not want to confirm him; freedom, as alien as an idea it was, still something that rang true in her blood, You were free once. Was I?, and a slave of the gods needed no other master. Still, she was bound to the gods' truth.
"He was my master, signori Caivano." So, was it to be that foreign land to the West the gods willed her to go? Westeros, a word like the hissing of a snake and a drawn-out sigh. "I have nothing in Myr, nothing in Lys."
Sindra let herself raise her eyes, only for the briefest of moments. Puppetmaster, crowned with whispers and droplets of poison in the daily broth, the blade of dancing water, Caivano had confirmed the last shadow; or at least Sindra had overheard that conversation about the Sea Lord's brother and his Braavosi education. Unless she had merely thought she overheard that conversation. Sindra closed her eyes and gave her head a frustrated shake, to clear the smoke from her mind.
She opened her eyes again to study her curved and murky reflection in the plain metal cup. "What- what is your will with this one?"