But Shay holds all those lost moments inside her like a million ghosts.
A hand lands on her shoulder, and she jumps.
Ghita studies her, every line of her rosy-brown face assessing. “Are you well?”
Shay punches her lips into a smile like she's fluffing saggy cushions ahead of arriving guests. “Of course, I'm fine, khalti.”
Ghita continues to study her, long enough that her cheeks threaten to cramp under the prolonged strain of her extended lips. Long enough that shebecomes certain the midwife has deciphered not only what's bothering her, but exactly why this particular day is harder for her than most. “A servant boy has brought word that Mukhtar Asim is on his way to document the birth. Why don't you take leave for the morning prayer? I hear there's a corner in the servant's gardens where apple grass grows in profusion. Pick some while you're there for the sayeda's steam bath.”
It hasn't escaped Shay's notice that the mistress's home, with its lofty ceilings and expansive second floor, is fancier than most of Nezjar's residences. But a separate garden designated for servants? That's a new level of luxury. Regardless, all Nezjarian women are equal when it comes to giving birth, and those who've carried children are accorded a higher level of respect than those with dozens of rings adorning their fingers. At least, it used to be that way, but times are changing—as Ghita often laments.
Shay turns to leave. She's stopped by an urgent tap upon her shoulder and swings back to find Ghita holding out her shawl.
“Remember to keep warm,” the midwife chides. “Resting season will soon be upon us.”
Shay accepts the garment with a quick nod. Though Ghita's vigilance can feel excessive, it's not unwarranted. Shay has a weak constitution, and the moon pepper leaves she grinds into her daily tea are the culprit. Regardless of how many vitamins she takes to offset the side effects, she often struggles with fatigue, always suffers from some cold or an upset stomach, and is beset with slow-healing wounds that sometimes linger for weeks. But all this is a price she willingly pays to keep her true nature suppressed.
She collects her scarf and steps into the bright light of a dome-shaped chandelier, only to realize that in her eagerness to flee the cloying scene of maternal bonding, she's neglected to obtain directions to this purported garden. How will she get there? The passage is empty at this late—correction: early—time of day, with a few doors left open and more closed. Left or right, either direction ends in another hallway.
“Quite a labyrinth, isn't it?” A boy emerges from the inner shadows of a nearby door. “Can I offer my assistance, Lalla?”
Not any boy—he's the messenger who spoke with Ghita. He has earthy-brown skin, languid eyes, and dark curly hair trimmed in straight lines that make his ears stick out. His nose is long and wide, and his impossibly full lips remind Shay of rose petals, bringing her thoughts back around to thorns. She twists the scarf in her hands before remembering to answer his question.
“Yes, khoya.” She clears her throat of a flutter, which annoyingly migrates to her belly. “I wish for a quiet place to perform the dawn prayer. Could you direct me to the servant's gardens?”
“I shall take you,” he offers with more enthusiasm than necessary.
“Oh … I would hate to be a bother.” Shay shakes her head with an equally excessive amount of … whatever the opposite of enthusiasm is.
“No bother. I'm on my way to do the same.” The boy smiles, showing the small gap between his teeth. Though Shay is positive they've never met, his smile has the strangely familiar quality of a place she remembers, if only from a dream. “Follow me.”
Shay returns his smile with a tight grin. It seems a moment alone to calm her nerves is too much to hope for, and if some part of her finds the idea of his company less than disagreeable, that makes him all the more frustrating. “Thank you, khoya.”
The boy walks left, slowly at first before falling into pace with Shay. The clack of their wooden soles meld into a singular rhythm against the smooth marble of the gleaming floor. “My name is Shadi.”
“I'm Shuika,” Shay responds automatically. Her regret is immediate. She waits for the quizzical look she's come to expect.
To her surprise, he merely repeats it. “Shuika.”
Her name sounds more beautiful from his lips than it has any right to.A thorn, indeed. After all, wasn't her first act in life that of drawing blood? She drained the last bits of her addicted mother's magic into her infant body, ensuring her own survival and her mother's untimely demise.
“Call meShay,” she mutters, the flutter that previously occupied her throat replaced with a jagged lump.
“Look at that!” Shadi claps his hands excitedly. “We alliterate. Why, we're practically name twins!”
“Hmm.” Shay focuses on counting the number of wall lanterns between each turn. She commits them to memory so as to find her way back later—alone.
Shadi leads her downstairs, through a kitchen where women are working wrist-deep in dough and fires glow from not one but four ovens, and out a set of wooden doors into the crisp of late harvest season. They cross a wide terrace made of bright zellij tiles placed in geometric patterns and arrive at a stretch of low grass. Between fragrant shrubs and succulents that grow from clay pots and raised beds and ceramic benches thoughtfully arranged beneath the shade of wide-leafed laurels, Shay can hardly imagine how grand the sidi and sayeda's private gardens must be.
The sky holds a cobalt glow Shay would describe as the color of magic, but not the kind forbidden by Al-Mukhtar. Not a magic drawn from Snow or passed through tainted blood. Just a stroke of good fortune that comes to those who have wished for something for a very long time.
She inhales the brisk air, not yet cold enough to irritate her delicate lungs, and notices the thin shift and loose trousers that identify Shadi as a servant. Her own woolen shawl feels suddenly heavy.
“Thank you for assisting me, khoya.” Shay presses her hand to her chest and dips her head. “But now that I know the way, you are free to offer your prayers indoors.”
“Do you see me shiver?” Amusement tweaks Shadi's lips at the corners. “My ancestors hail from Umm Chanala, home of the eternal resting season, which basically makes me part mountain goat and immune to the most extreme temperatures. Besides, nothing is better for the spirit than praying in nature. Come, you'll see.” Over his shoulder, he adds, “And call meShadi.”
He disappears behind a screen of pink-flowered oleander, leaving her no choice but to follow.
