“Given what we know about who Hadia has been escorting, I think we can also read the next numbers as an age range.”
Rahma took a deeper breath that pressed her shoulder more firmly into his. “And the ‘m’ likely stands for ‘male,’ which means he wants a thirteen-to-fifteen-year-old boy with woodworking skills.”
“Or at least a woodworking background,” As’ad pointed out. “At that age, apprenticeships have only just started.”
She moved her finger to the last line. “That would make sense for this one, too, since he is open to a boy or a girl with a cattle background.” Her voice grew bitter. “I imagine it’s easier to get people used to slavery when they’re young.”
“Now, we don’t actuallyknowthat these are potential slaves,” he began. “But it doesn’t look good,” he added hastily when she shot him a look.
“Dare we hope that Suha wasn’t in the last shipment?”
As’ad wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “Is she a seamstress?”
“Wha—? Oh!” She scanned the sheet again. “She was more of a weaver, like her mother, but yes. She could sew well enough.”
“Maybe she’s one of the sewing set that Hadia is collecting?” As’ad could hear the false hope in his voice.
Apparently, so could Rahma. “That would be nice, but I don’t think we can count on it.” She slumped against him. “I’m still determined to save her; I just need a moment to feel my feelings. Then I can move past them.”
“Feel your feelings?”
She rolled her head back on his shoulder so she could see him a little better. “You know, taking the time to acknowledge and experience your emotions so they don’t sneak up later and control your actions.”
That was a completely foreign concept to As’ad. He generally tried not to have too many emotions in the first place, as they seemed to complicate things. Peace and contentment were the ultimate goals, and neither of those expected much feeling from him.
“Oh. What are you feeling now?”
A tired laugh huffed over her lips. “A wee bit of despair, lots of dread, more hopelessness than I’d like to admit.”
“Oh,” he repeated, not sure what to do with all that.
But she continued, her tone gradually warming from listless to fiery. “Sorrow for everyone whose life has been stolen from them, anger at Pozik and Hadia for thinking that any of this is okay, and”—she sat up fully—“the determination I need to fix it.”
As’ad opened his mouth, ready to remind her of some salient details.
She held up her hand to forestall him. “I know. I know that we don’t know how big this is. And we don’t know where Suha or the others are. And we don’t know how to stop it, either.” Rahma grabbed his free hand and clasped it with both of hers as she looked imploring up at him. “Will you help me figure out what wecando, and do it?”
Drowning in her dark eyes melted the last icy piece of indifference in his heart. He would do anything this woman asked.
As he came to that realization, an idea sparked.
“What was the date of the next shipment?” As’ad asked as he detached himself from her and walked to the cart.
“Uh . . . Here! The next shipment is set to go out in . . . seven days.”
“Perfect. That gives us a timeframe to work with.”
Rahma watched him dig through the back of the cart for a while before asking, “What are you doing?”
“Looking for—Ah-ha! These.” He held up the maps that had somehow migrated to the very bottom of everything. Fat Carl protested the daylight interrupting his slumber, then promptly rolled over. As’ad smiled as he tucked the canvas cover back into place.
“With these, we can try to work out a timeline with the letter. Do you remember how long ago Hadia was in Qarya?” He looked at Rahma with a grimace. “Did you ask that part?”
Her movements were slow as she joined him at the flattest rock he could find. “Ididask that.”
He glanced up from unrolling the correct map to see an odd expression on her face. “What?”
She hesitated, then knelt and helped him hold the map open. “You never said whether or not you would work with me.”
