her head. He wouldn’t call her beautiful in the way of other women now hazy in his mind. Her chin held too firm a jut, her nose slightly hawk-like. The strong slash of her cheekbones bore testament to her mixed blood. She had a strong face, fascinating, and in her private moment on the rooftop her elemental fire drew him like a starving man to a feast. Her very essence called to that barely living part of him that remembered life in abundance.
In her evening ritual, she discarded the modesty she showed during the day. She believed the rest of the household to be at prayer and in these forbidden moments before she would be called in, or admonished by the older woman who always accompanied her, English became a man again.
* * * *
“Come in, Alya.” Nasira beckoned from beyond the curtains. The old woman knew Alya well enough to end her prayers early and drag her back inside before anyone else saw her. Creases on Nasira’s craggy features meant another lecture on the way.
As Alya reached the point on the rooftop garden where her hoarse whisper could be heard Nasira started. “You show your face like a street woman.” Nasira shook her head. “What will people think when they see you like so?”
“Nobody sees me.” Alya pushed the gauzy curtains aside. A stiffening evening breeze sent them dancing around her. “I only do it when nobody else is about.”
“Somebody is always about.” Grabbing a brush, Nasira motioned for Alya to sit. “Especially now.”
“Why especially now?” Nasira’s tone gave Alya pause. She tried to turn and look at her.
Nasira rapped her on the head with her brush. “Stay still. Your father has called for you to attend him after prayers.”
“He did?” They always ate the evening meal together.
Huge frown creasing her brows, Nasira nodded. “There has been trouble, habibti. In the suq today.”
Trouble in the suq hardly deserved the look of doom Nasira’s face. Trouble blew perpetually through the suq. One merchant squabbled with another, buyers quibbled over prices, and the constant thieves threaded through the place like snakes, always looking for the chance to strike. “What happened?”
“I will let your father tell you, but it is bad. Bad.” Nasira lowered her head in obeisance. “Enna lillah wa enna elaihe Rajioun.”
“Did someone die?” Alya swung about on the stool, wincing as Nasira’s hold on her hair tugged at the roots.
“You ask too many questions.” Nasira grabbed her shoulders and turned her about again. “Your father will tell you all you need to know.”
Her nurse should know better than to think she would leave it there. “But someone did die?”
“Come.” Nasira bustled to her clothing and grabbed a fresh tunic. “I sent the boy for water, you must wash and attend your father.”
A new tunic meant the news her father bore was weighty. She washed and dressed quickly, flinging her veil over her shoulder as she trotted out of her chamber and down the stairs to the small, inner courtyard shaded on one end, where her father and she shared their evening meals. The table lay set for their meal but her father sat beside a small pond, staring into the water.
His skin was so darkened by the sun, a stranger could never tell he had not been born in this land, but had come from somewhere beyond the sea.
“Alya.” Holding his hands out, he smiled and drew her forward for a kiss on both cheeks. “Nasira tells me you have been on the roof again.”
“The sunset was particularly beautiful today.” She could always get around him with a bit of teasing. He smelled as he always did of silk and spices, and fruit tobacco from his hookah.
Tonight, he turned from her and went back to his study of the pool. “You need to be careful, Alya.”
“What happened in the suq?” Father dressed, ate, spoke, acted and even prayed as a son of this land, but he had raised her differently. Nasira warned his indulgence of her would come to no good, but Alya had always been encouraged to speak openly with her father.
“A merchant was killed.” Father trailed his fingers through the water. Flashes of light glimmered beneath the surface as fish darted away from him. “A foreign merchant. He was murdered.”
“Why?” Alya sank to the low stone lip of the pond. Her father acted not as himself this evening. Dread prickled across her skin and sunk deep into her belly. “What are you not telling me?”
“The tension between the local merchants and the foreigners grows worse.” With a sigh, he sat beside her and rubbed the back of his neck. “And the Sultan does nothing to aid the foreigners. What, with the same battle taking place in his palace, his hands are tied.”
“But why?”
“You know why?” Father looked up at her. She had her eyes from him, a mix of green and brown that marked them clearly as not from here.
Alya nodded, she did know why. “The army of unbelievers.”
Even now, years after the Nile had risen and forced the invaders to flee, the distrust lingered.
“You must be more careful than ever.” Father captured her hand and squeezed. “Eyes are everywhere and looking for a way to discredit us.”
When dripped with venom from the wrong tongue, her simple act of freedom on the walls at sunset could take on the worst of connotations. She nodded. “I will be more careful.”
“Let us enjoy our dinner.” Father smiled but the worry lingered. “And then I must see Bahir.”
Chapter 2
Bahir had it in his head to be a whoreson this evening. At the completion of prayers, he had English fill the water barrels beside the house. Not a duty English minded because it meant a trip outside the walls to the well at the end of the street. After that Bahir had him sweep the courtyard within and then bring his broom and follow him to the master’s private courtyard.
Night had fallen over Cairo. Above him the velvet black sky threw out a glorious mantle of stars. Countless needle pricks in the vast fabric of the night. With night came the sudden cold, but English did not mind the cold. At times, when he lay on his bare pallet in the slaves’ quarters the chill on the air took his mind to a white blanket of snow, and blurred faces huddling around great hearths.
“Bahir.” The master greeted the giant eunuch.
“Sahib.” Bahir bowed low. With skin as dark as night, Bahir’s oiled scalp shone in the flickering oil lamps.
“We must speak.” Master gestured to him. “We should send him away.”
Both gazes swung his way and English went about his business of sweeping.
“That one.” Bahir snorted like a giant bull. “The English does not speak our tongue. One too many blows to the head with steel.”
Except English did speak their tongue. He kept his head over his broom. The gentle whisk whisk over the mosaics broke the
