#scarsdale

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Zara is in the Uncle-kitchen, making coffee as a casserole warms in the oven.

Both Uncles have taken the practice of sometimes leaving at the same time; different destinations, perhaps, but neither of them present. This only seems to happen when Zara's on duty as caretaker.

Zara can hear Miriam drift downstairs into the (VERY) upholstered living room.

Well, the work is easier if she's not doing it in ninja-mode... "Miriam? Would you like coffee?" she calls out, though even mortally she's soft spoken.

No response.

And, in truth, asking is a courtesy - Zara has already started on a cup. Cream and sugar, just a little of each. She takes the drink out to the living room. "Miriam?"

Miriam seems to be standing off in one corner, almost Blair Witch-like, except she is staring out a window. With the curtains shut.

"....Miriam?" Zara walks over, kenning her en route.

Slowly, her hand drifts up to hesitate, then touch, the odd curtains. Pieced together, almost like a quilt.

"I... I made coffee?" Somehow a question.

Her fingers brush the littlest of the pieces that make up the curtains. "Pretty."

"Hirim made them. They're a bit emb-... they're pretty, sure."

"Like your name, somehow." Miriam looks over at her. "Pretty."

"Well, you remembered. Your mother was an Esther, too. These were mine, as a baby."

"Zara...." She frowns, suddenly intent. "Zara."

"Something... something about that, important...." One hand absently grips the durtains.

"Yes, I'm Zara. Remember? Hirim's sister's ... I.. it... I'm n-not important. Why don't you sit and have a bit of coffee?"

Zara reaches out, lightly touching the older woman's arm.

Her fingers, almost like a blind person reading braille, scan the seams and embroidery of the little garment, a cute little pink dress. She jolts at the touch, staring at Zara. "Why can't I -remember-?? It's important!"

"Shhh. Shh. You will remember, it just... it takes time, yes?"

"Maybe.. maybe it's the embroidery? You used to do that, I think."

Her hand clenches around the fabric and her other hand grips Zara's shoulder. "It's... it's right there. Like I should know. Right in front of me!"

"Mayhaps." Zara squeezes her eyes shut, biting her tongue.

"This... These.... these are baby clothes. Why are baby clothes important?"

"Why do I keep thinking of your name?"

"What's -wrong- with me?"

"I... I... I've b-been around the house, yes? So you d-d-don't see many people, besides the Uncles, and me..."

"You were sick, and hurt, and you lost your memories."

"You said I was Hirim's apprentice, right? Was I... was I related to him? Like, family, not just... you know, a student?"

"W-well, family isn't just blood, right? I'm not.. I mean, I'm... Hirim, I think, felt very close to you. Like family. Mischpocha."

"Do I -have- any family? Blood-family?"

"Yes..." she stops, going pale.

"Where -are- they? Why aren't they taking care of me instead of Hirim? They're alive, aren't they?"

"Your mother died, yes? You said. "

"I... yes. She did. I know that. I can remember that."

"I don't know about your father. I don't... siblings? I don't know."

Her hand slides along the curtains again. "Mother....."

She turns her face aside, breathing carefully.

"-My- mother's dead.... maybe father too, you don't know if I have siblings... so where is my family?"

"I... I just..."

Miriam's dark eyes swing back from the patchwork curtains to Zara, pleading.

"I'm sure you aren't alone. I'm sure of it."

"-How???-"

She takes the woman's hands with her own, giving a squeeze. "I just... don't you feel it?"

"It's... it's a pattern I can't quite see. There's something here, I can feel it, but I can't -SEE- it. The colors, the way it flows together, the interlocking... the ... " Frustrated.

"Shhh... you will see it. You are very smart."

Her eyes narrow. "Do -you- see it? Do you know the answers? You said I have family, but don't know who or where? Your name is important, why? It's not just because you've been around. Tell me!"

"You have to... ask Hirim, yes? Please?"

"He won't say! That old bastard just ignores me, or looks at Rachamin, who tries to pour tea down my ferkakta throat!!"