The sound of flowing water bracketed Khadijah Tolstoy’s days, the fountain in the garden outside her window babbling gently at all hours. Though, if anyone were to say that, she would only have one little correction:
"It's Pashmina, just call me Pash."

It was the name she preferred, mostly because of the sound but also because of the meaning. Word etymology wasn’t a hobby she would name at first thought, but it was interesting to trace the origins of terms. The original Khadijah, Khadijah bint Khuwaylid, was the Mother of Believers. A merchant and honorable businesswoman etched firmly into history. It seemed silly to walk around with such a name without having much earned it. She supposed names could be prayers for what one would come to be, but it just seemed more true to call oneself what they were. Pashmina was rather fitting, rather soft.

Her rigid schedule was one that she enjoyed, why try and adhere to the norm when her body could very well tell her when to wake and when to sleep? Being up and dressed before 5 felt the best, there was so much day and so little time.

Breakfast was always quiet, tea and murmured conversation in a mishmash of English and Russian that stomped all over the grammatical rules of both languages. It was always fun to speak like this, like a subtle and sneaky test of all the colloquialisms and slang she knew, parsing the language she wasn’t native to.

She liked to sharpen her mind, resistance was just a path to further understanding of whatever it is she wanted to know. Life was just nice that way, full of mysteries to sink her claws into. Though they mostly lay beyond the breakfast table.