A Darker Light. Heidi Priesnitz

      We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation's Ontario Book Initiative.

      Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author

       and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in

       subsequent editions.

      J. Kirk Howard, President

      Printed and bound in Canada. Printed on recycled paper. www.dundurn.com

      acknowledgements

      Thank you to Ken Shorley for hours of ideas, encouragement and love.

      Thank you to the Nova Scotia Arts Council for a generous creation grant.

      And thank you to everyone who has given me insight, energy and inspiration during the process of writing this book.

      I deeply appreciate all of it.

       for Ken

      chapter 1

      From the height of the terrace where she sat, Sara framed the city's rooftops against the mist of the morning sky.

       click

       Red tile hides beneath moist, swirling air. The hood-like dome of a mosque rises above the mist and shines in the early rays of sun. There is a shadow that might be a woman shaking out a rug through an open window. There is a hint of blue that might be the sea.

      "That's not enough for a tip," a young British woman said, making Sara turn away from the view. "You've never waited tables, so you have no idea what it's like."

      The woman's greying husband, with the vista of Tangier behind him, flicked a crumb off the white tablecloth and counted the foreign currency in his wallet. "I know you think I'm made of money, but my fortune has to last another two weeks."

      "Just give him something reasonable. I can't stand looking cheap."

      Sara turned away from the quibbling couple and tried to catch her waiter's eye. Lifting up her empty cup, she motioned for a refill. She always drank too much coffee while she was travelling. I'll ease up when I get home, she thought, but she was never there long enough for it to matter.

      "Where will you go today?" the young waiter asked, as he cleared away her dirty plate.

      "To take more photos," she said.

      "You want a nice place to see? You go to supermall. Good deals. Brand names."

      "I'm looking for something older, more historic." Her editor wanted a story about romantic getaways—quiet dining, gorgeous hotels, ancient mosques, exotic views. Something beautiful to look at, not something to take home.

      "This is oldest restaurant in Morocco," he told her. "It has always been here."

      "Can I take your photograph?" she asked, lifting her camera from her lap. "I work for an English-language magazine."

      "Yes, yes. Wait please."

      He rushed off into the kitchen, fixing his hair and checking his shirt for stains or spills. When he returned, he stood where she asked him. He smiled fully, his mouth curved, his eyes robust.

       click

       A young man dressed in good pants and a well-ironed shirt smiles too hard for the camera.

       click

       The young man blinks, although he tries not to.

       click

       He blinks again.

      "Thank you—Shukran," Sara said, lowering her camera slightly. "Maybe one more coffee?"

      "Na'am." He lifted her cup and began to pour.

       click

       A man, with his eyes lowered and his lips determined, pours coffee on a terrace in Tangier.

      On the street, Sara chose to walk to her first destination. With the strong coffee still in her veins, she moved fast—her eyes darting from building to building, looking for images worthy of her camera. The air was already warming—she could

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