Until the house is cleaned,
And if it isn't, the maid will come.
Sleep, little baby,
Until the laundry is washed,
And if it isn't, we will bathe in our clothes and lie side by side in the sun.
Sleep, little baby,
But don't sleep too long.
The food will be eaten, the house will be dirtied, the clothes will be worn,
But my baby, oh, my baby, won't always be a baby, you see.
—a mother's lullaby
After fumbling through the dawn prayers and neglecting to eat a proper breakfast, Shay gathers together a couple of rounds of khobz, a half dozen eggs, and some assorted vegetables from the garden. She swipes her foraging knife, remembering how Ghita allowed her to buy it when she was old enough to understand it wasn't a toy. Not a gift, really.Not like the gloves.
Swallowing a pang of guilt, she arranges it all in a knapsack she fits into the wide hood of her djellaba. She doesn't take the moon pepper Shadi gave her, notyet. She hasn't felt any stirring of magic inside herself, not that she knows what it would feel like. For now, she brings the sachet of leaves along, keeping it handy in case, and heads back through the winding streets of Nezjar toward the Bib.
Time will tell if she needs it. Whether Hind lied.
Shay failed to obtain solid answers from the midwife, but she must keep her word and check on Hind. Besides, the loss of the gloves is bad enough; Shay cannot lose her ticket, which is currently in the touched one's possession.
If she lets the midwife down, she'll be out of a career, and if she lets Hind down, well, the unthinkable could happen. But what if Shadi is right? What if she doesn't have to choose? Hind could come with her to Kiddah. Shay could help her mother there.
Two days is not much time to raise money for a second ticket, but if Shay is willing to delve farther into Al-Ghaba Mayita than normal, who knows what rare flowers or precious herbs she may locate? If it's a long shot, so was finding her mother alive. That their paths have crossed is all the proof she needs that there must be a way for them to make a life together.
And if Hind has made mistakes, done terrible things, at least she's willing to turn over a new leaf. In a way, Shay will be saving not just Hind but any girls she would have gone on to influence. The cycle can end. With every step, her confidence grows, and her conviction soars. Helping Hind is not just therightthing to do, Shay feels, with sudden certainty—it is theonlything that matters.
Shay raises her hand in signal as she enters the Bib a second time, though if any rebels are looking out, she doesn't catch so much as a glimmer of them. There's an aura to everything now, light reflecting off the structures around her in that kind of sharp intensity that early morning brings, with all its promises ofnewnessandpossibilities.
She's close to Hind's shelter when voices rise from a nearby alley like angry flares.
Logic dictates, or at least strongly recommends, that it's best to avoid trouble and continue on. But one of the voices sounds masculine and the other feminine, which alone might override her logic, even if the latter voice weren't Hind's.
Shay has hardly been reacquainted with her mother long enough to recognize her voice, and yet, by some soul-deep recognition, she does. A charge vibrates over her skin like a glass rod rubbed with silk. It's a feeling that's difficult to ignore.
“You know what you must do,” the male voice barks out as Shay draws closer. “That is, if you hope to be spared a ride on the blood-wagons.”
The woman whimpers, a low and desperate sound, and Shay rushes forward, colliding with the man as he exits the alley. She stumbles back and looks up, immobilized. Half his face bears deep burn scars, while the other half appears younger than she expects. Young, and what any girl her age—herself not excluded—would consider comely. Shay averts her eyes, not wishing to stare, but not before she notices that the man's eyes hold a strange quality that makes them the oldest-looking part on his body.
“Watch where you're going,” the man growls, proceeding to call Shay a name that makes her flinch. As his gaze lands squarely on her face, he stops, squints, and lurches forward. Just then, a group of women carrying kindling on their backs comes by. Seeing them, the man pushes roughly past Shay and slinks away, melting into the shadows.
Shay races forward to where the touched one hunches against a wall, her body curling inward in as close to a ball as one can manage and still be standing. She scans Hind up and down, and finding no gross injury, she gently cups her shoulders. “Hind, are you well?”
The touched one allows herself to be unfolded. Seems disoriented as Shay's eyes roam her face.
A reddish welt, the beginning of a bruise, blooms over her left cheekbone. Guided by Shay's stare, the touched one cradles her own cheek, her fingertips sparking green. She removes her hand, and the mark has vanished. That's when Shay sees—really sees—her eyes. Gone are the smoke-brown irises she gazed into only yesterday as they made plans for a new start, erased in a vacuum of white.
“Who was that man? Is he your supplier?” If Al-Mukhtar provides Snow to the touched ones who reside at the kasbah, someone else must supply it tothose cast out. Shay peers down the narrow street, her heart still pounding, half expecting him to return.
“Did he see you?” the touched one asks with alarm.
“Only in passing.” Shay's attention snaps back to Hind. “Why?”
