Braw - Scottish slang for good or attractive, in this case, hot as hell.
Keeping the heid - Scottish slang for keeping calm, in control of your mental faculties.
Chapter Seventeen
In which there is a magical night in the garden thanks to a most hospitable host.
Lucas…
“Salam alaykum,peace be upon you.”
The man greeting us at the door of his enormous home is short and slim, but I’d never underestimate him. There’s a compact energy to him that feels like it could uncoil and explode at any moment. Now, though, his dark eyes twinkle as he offers his right hand to me.
“Wa alaykum as-salam,and peace be upon you too,” I return, shaking his hand.
As Marabout Badis turns to Cat, his interest is clear. He greets her with a nod and his hand over his heart, and she softly repeats the greeting back.
“Kif I’familia,and how is your family?”
“Bikhir, shukran,well, thank ye,” she answers. “My father wished to convey his gratitude to yefor your kindness and hospitality.”
Marabout Badis switches from Arabic to flawless English with a faint English accent. “I had met you and your twin Michael when you were quite young.” He’s watching her thoughtfully. “Even as a very young child, you were rather fearless.”
“Headstrong is the word my father would use,” she laughs, “though I appreciate your interpretation more.”
“I am pleased to have the two of you here, in my home. Your father gave me a bit of information about how you came to be in the Atlas Mountains.” His dark eyes change from warm to bitter cold in an instant, and I suspect this is the expression his enemies see. “I know of this man, we will not speak his name. He’s enslaved entire villages; controls hundreds of peoples’ lives without remorse or shame.” He smiles with a malevolent kind of satisfaction. “I will be most pleased to assist your family.”
I’m beginning to like our host.
“Please, my sister Imane has put out a magnificent buffet,” he gestures toward the garden. “Eat. Rest.”
“That would be nice, thank ye,SiBadis.”
“How do ye know Arabic?” Cat whispers as we walk toward the food. “I’ll just add this to your list of hidden talents.”
“When I was in the service, I was sent to this region for twelve months,” I murmur, “fluency in the language was critical.”
She gives me a speculative glance. “I’ll be needing to hear more about this later, thank ye very much.”
Even though we’d just had dinner, Cat and I tear into the food with barely restrained savagery. There’sbastilla,a savory pie filled with chicken with a flaky crust, three kinds of tagine stews, andkeftameatballs.
“Ooo, get anotherbriouator three for me, please,” she whispers, looking yearningly at the little triangular pastries. A servant eagerly pours us mint tea and urges us to take more food. I barely get Cat seated before she tucks in.
“I feel like I’m gobbling this down like a farm animal,” she whispers, “but it all tastes amazing.”
“Try themaakouda.”I close my eyes, savoring the potato beignet, crisp on the outside, perfectly soft on the inside.
We eat in blissful silence until one of the servants notices our plates are nearly empty, scampering over with a platter held high.
“la mazida, nashkuruka,no more, we thank you,” I smile at her clear disappointment.
“This is like going to dinner at my friendLucia’s place when her mother visits.” Cat hums blissfully. “Mama Amato was never happy until she’d fed us to the point of unconsciousness.”
“I remember.” Chuckling, I recall the pile of Tupperware that Cat would bring home with us, insisting I take it so I dinnae need to cook for the next three days.
As is custom, I’m pulled into conversation with the men after the meal and Cat is immediately drawn to the bairns racing around the garden. She laughs as she creates a flower crown for one little girl, then five more descend upon her, demanding hair ornaments of their own and a turn sitting in her lap.
Then, one of the mothers brings over her henna kit, offering to create a design for Cat. She must speak at least a bit of English, because they chat and laugh as the woman spirals beautiful designs of flowers and vines on her arms.
