“You do not need to take me,” Zahir said. “Only take them.”
“We survive together or not at all,” said Arwa. “Please.”
Silence. Nothing. Nothing.
Somewhere, distantly, she could hear wailing.
The door opened.
“Quickly now, before I change my mind.”
They needed no further encouragement. The three of them tumbled in, and the doors of the House of Tears closed behind them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
As soon as they were through the door, Arwa felt as if she could breathe more easily. The terror eased, just enough for her to take in the sight before her with clear eyes. The widows were all crowded at the top of the stairs, which led to the prayer room. They had no proper weapons—no scimitars, no bows, no handheld daggers—but they had makeshift tools of defense. Cooking knives. A broom, broken, the end sharpened. One was holding, of all things, a bucket.
Zahir lowered his head and made a gesture of respect.
“You have our gratitude,” he said. “My apologies for intruding.”
Eshara didn’t bother with such niceties. She gave the door a critical look and said, “Do you have any more wood? Any more brooms like that one?” She gestured at the broken wooden shaft in one woman’s hands.
“Yes,” the woman said cautiously. “Some.”
“Bring it here, then,” said Eshara. “We’re going to strengthen this door.”
As a few of the women moved to obey, Arwa crossed the room. Aunt Madhu was seated in the corner, wrapped in a thick shawl. Her mouth was pursed. Diya stood beside her, arms crossed. She gave Arwa a curt nod.
“Aunt,” said Arwa. “Thank you for giving us sanctuary.”
Aunt Madhu snorted. “What else could we say to all that groveling?” She turned her gaze on Eshara. “Your friend. Can she really protect us?”
Arwa could hear Eshara ordering the widows about.
“She’ll certainly try,” said Arwa. “She told no lies.”
“And the man. Can he fight?” A frown. “He’s pretty enough, but he doesn’t look like much.”
Arwa thought of the night at the imperial palace when Zahir had cut a man’s throat. Absurdly, she found herself smiling.
“Oh, he can,” she said.
“And you,” one of the widows said shortly. “What good are you?”
“I do what I can,” Arwa said.
She helped Eshara and Zahir and the widows try to secure the door, but it was a futile task. The House of Tears was far more ramshackle than Arwa had realized on her first visit, when it had been cloaked in careful candlelit darkness. Without the careful veil of shadow and oil lamps, under the blaze of fully lit lanterns, the state of disrepair the grief-house was in was readily apparent.
She and Diya stood together under a hole in the roof. When Arwa tilted her head just so, she could see the sky.
“This may be a problem,” Arwa said.
“We do well here,” Diya said defensively. “But we cannot afford better than we have. Besides.” Voice lowered. “I’m not convinced the door will protect us. I think your friend is merely trying to make us feel better.”
Arwa had thought the same. But she didn’t want to say so.
“You must have had more generous donors, once,” she said instead. “You may yet again.”
