to say.’’
The woman smiled gratefully. ‘‘You’re not American?’’ she asked in French.
‘‘No.’’
The older woman’s mouth pursed as she studied Nic’s face. ‘‘French?’’
‘‘Half.’’ Quarter, actually. Julien, her father had been half-French, half-Spanish.
Suddenly the old woman wagged her finger. Her frown faded as she smiled, deep lines creasing her skin. ‘‘I know who you look like.’’ She beamed wider. ‘‘The American singer. Star.’’
Star. Mom. And Nic could see her mother, long dark hair, flashing eyes, a wicked sense of humor.
‘‘You know who I’m talking about?’’ The woman clasped Nic’s arm. ‘‘Superstar. Married a Spanish prince.’’
But Mom didn’t marry a Spanish prince. He was a Melian prince. Her eyes felt gritty and she blinked, blaming the hot wind. ‘‘Thank you.’’
She patted the older woman’s hand where it rested on her arm, the elderly woman’s fingers thin, the skin delicate. ‘‘I’m very flattered, and you are very kind.’’
The woman beamed wider, spaces showing between her bottom teeth and reached up to pat Nic’s cheek. ‘‘Allah ihennik.’’ God make you safe.
Nic’s heart squeezed. A lump filled her throat. ‘‘And you,’’ she murmured as the elderly woman shuffled away. She watched the elderly woman fade into the crowd.
It’d been years since anyone said she looked like her mother. With her blonde hair, the family always said she was like Julien, but Nic remembered when she was little, her mother used to sit Nic on her lap and comb her long hair and point to their reflections in the mirror. ‘‘You have Mommy’s eyes,’’ her mother would say, drawing the boar bristle brush through Nic’s curls. ‘‘And you have Mommy’s mouth and chin.’’
‘‘And Mommy’s nonsense,’’ her father called to them from the bedroom where he’d inevitably be sitting in a chair, or lying in bed, with a stack of state documents. Her father was always reading, preparing, studying up on economies, politics, world events. No one cared more about the future than Prince Julien Ducasse.
It was odd, Nic thought, setting off, threading her way through the crowd, but when her parents died everyone talked about what a tragedy it was, what a loss of beautiful young glamorous people. And beauty was all very nice and fine, but beauty wasn’t their strength. Their strength had been their intelligence, their spirit, their drive. Both her father and her mother were real people, not glossy paper dolls, or coat hangers for expensive couture.
What a gift that elderly woman had given her today, what a lovely birthday gift. To be told she looked like her mother. To have a stranger stop her and say I see Star in you…
Nic closed her eyes, pressed her hands to her heart, held all the emotion and welling of love inside.
Now it was time to get back to Malik before he started worrying, and rounding a corner lined with narrow stalls, Nicolette glanced around, sensing she hadn’t gone in the right direction. Where had she made a wrong turn? Nothing looked familiar, but then, the maze of merchants and crowded souks was enough to disorient anyone.
Standing at the corner, hands on hips, Nic became aware that she was drawing attention. Women avoided her but men were curious. It was obvious she was a foreigner, and even though she was wearing a traditional coverall, she stood out as different.
Where was she? Where was the central market?
What would Malik say when he found out she’d lost Fatima and was wandering somewhere inside the endless medina?
Nic moved toward a woman to ask for directions but the woman drew her scarf closer to her face and hurried on.
Nic wrinkled her nose. That was not the response she wanted. Glancing left, and then right, the streets much narrower than they had been earlier. What she needed to do was backtrack…
Nic set off again, returning the way she’d come, but the street didn’t lead to the market. Instead the street ended in a narrow alley, and alley led to yet another alley.
This was definitely not the right direction.
Nic chewed the inside of her lip. The sun had dropped, but the heat was still intense, and there were fewer people out now.
Nic batted a fly buzzing her face and sighed. She couldn’t panic. She hadn’t been gone that long. Twenty minutes. Thirty at the most.
She rubbed the back of her arm across her eyes, catching the dampness on her brow. Think. Which way did you come? Where was the sun? In Baraka the markets—like the mosques—are built facing East. All she had to do was orient herself to the East and she’d find her way across.
Malik was waiting at the side of the car when Fatima arrived alone. ‘‘Is the princess here?’’ Fatima asked, bending down to peer into the darkened car windows.
He felt as if his heart stopped, his muscles turned to stone. ‘‘She’s supposed to be with you.’’
Fatima looked at him, wide-eyed, innocent. ‘‘I thought we were together. We were just browsing through the market—’’
‘‘You lost her.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘You lost her.’’
His normally quiet voice boomed. Fatima shook her head. ‘‘I didn’t. I thought she was with me. I was sure she was following me.’’
He snapped his fingers, and his driver appeared. ‘‘The princess is missing.’’ He spoke quickly, urgently.‘‘Summon the security officers, let them know we must find her. In the meantime, I’m going to call the palace, request additional guard.’’
The chauffeur bowed, hurried away. Fatima watched Malik call the palace on his phone, tears in her eyes. ‘‘I didn’t mean to lose her, cousin. I wouldn’t do that.’’
He silenced her with a lift of his hand. ‘‘I don’t want to hear it. You’ve had a problem with the princess since she arrived.’’ He turned his back on her, spoke to the captain of his military guard, requesting assistance, giving the captain his location at the market square.
Tears continued to well in Fatima’s eyes. ‘‘Forgive me, cousin.’’
But he couldn’t look at her. ‘‘I trusted you,’’ he said, his deep voice curt, his tone bitter. ‘‘And you have shamed me.’’
Fatima climbed into the back of the limousine and buried her face in her hands. Malik paced before the car, waiting for the driver to return. Malik intended to set off and look for Nicolette himself, but suddenly she was there, a flushed princess, hot, tired, but obviously grateful to have found her way back. ‘‘You’re still here.’’ Nic smiled in relief. ‘‘Thank goodness.’’
‘‘I’d never leave you.’’
‘‘I
