Eshara looked at Arwa then, not as if she were seeing her with new eyes, but as if she had come to the end of the world, and no one was left but Arwa, so Arwa would have to do.
It was hardly complimentary. But it was something.
Zahir was waiting for them. She could see the relief on his face, splintered all through with fear.
“Good,” he said. “You’re still alive.”
“We need to go.”
“Oh, I’m aware of that,” he said. “But where do you suggest? And what happened when you spoke to the soldiers, exactly?”
“I’ll tell you as we walk,” said Eshara. “Just hurry up. We’ve wasted enough time coming back for you.”
They left their makeshift room and walked across the courtyard, Eshara speaking to Zahir in a low, hurried voice. The open space was still full of milling people, but it was silent. People were staring up at the walls.
Arwa raised her own head. Something was staked on the walls. In the light she couldn’t quite see.
“Don’t stare,” hissed Eshara. Her own voice trembled on a knife edge.
But Zahir had paused too, raising his own face up, and said nothing when Arwa stopped alongside him and blinked through the glare of the sun. She saw what was there. Swallowed the bile that rose to her mouth.
Corpses upon walls. Ah, Gods save them.
At least she knew what the punishment Argeb had spoken of was.
She tugged Zahir’s sleeve. Understanding, he followed her.
The House of Tears had shut its doors. Eshara strode forward and rapped on them sharply. She knocked harder still when there was no response.
Arwa pressed her own hand to the wood.
“Sisters,” she shouted. “Aunts. Please. If you recognize my voice, or not—I am a fellow widow. You offered me sanctuary once. I beg it of you now. Please. Answer me.”
Silence. Then:
“We’re not allowing anyone in, widow or not.” The voice was a woman’s voice. Trembling. It was painfully close, just beyond the wood.
“Please,” Eshara said, pressing her hand flat to the door alongside Arwa’s. “We only want—”
“We do not care what you want,” another voice said. How many women were pressed close to the door, huddled tight together? “We will not open the door.”
“They’re killing a man,” said Zahir. His voice was devoid of feeling. “Out in the open. They’re making a spectacle of it.”
Eshara turned. Swore again. But Arwa did not turn.
“Please,” she said. “You offered me safety once. Please offer it again.”
“We don’t owe you anything, woman,” snapped the widow. “Not safety. Not entry here. Is this how you repay our kind offer? By placing us all at risk by asking us to open our doors to chaos?”
“You have wooden doors,” Eshara said bluntly. “Cheap. They won’t hold for long. And I know how to gut a man from groin to neck. Do you?”
“At least one of us does,” another widow said guardedly.
“Horse shit,” said Eshara. “You need us.”
“Let us in, Aunt, or we will die out here,” said Arwa, trying a softer tack. “I know you are good hearted. You offered me shelter when you believed I had none. I beg you now: Do not rescind your offer. Do not allow us to die.”
“All of you?” said the first voice. Hesitant. “I heard a man’s voice, sister.”
