Moments drew on without the feverish haze that the malaria had brought in the first few days, and she almost forgot about the condition all together until the joints in her fingers started to ache. Still, they plucked at the warps and threw the wefts and worked so carefully on the gift for the healer who had been doing so much for her. She couldn't allow a little disease to slow her down, what sort of woman would she be if that were the case? A hacking cough rattled her lungs, angular face turning sideways to spit phlegm to the ground before returning to watch her work. It was easy to ignore it, wasn't it? So easy until the fever started.
The back of one tanned hand rubbed against the forehead of the jackayote as she took a momentary break from the loom set in front of her. She didn't hear the hooves, or the steps of another, or anything that might have otherwise told her she was not alone until the foreign voice reached her ears. Muscles tensed and she shoot a look over her shoulder at the young woman who approached, smiling. Who. Who was the only word she could make out from the jumble of English that seemed to be the common language. Only the jackal healer had spoken a language she knew. There was no reason not to pretend, though — a new chance to make friends was in the future, and it was with trembling confidence that she sat straight and tucked salt-and-pepper hair behind her ears. "Sa'adat." A name was the same in any language.
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