Filtered sunlight through the dense wood washes his face in an umber glow. In the contours of Shadi's guileless smile, she fails to find any trace of the hate she would expect from a Naturalist.
Nearing the medina square, Shay sights armed guards. They mill the perimeter, looking as formidable as small boys toting large guns can. As if the fact that theherb she relies upon has been plundered weren't making her nervous enough, hammers ring in the distance, the shouts of men at work, no doubt erecting gallows.
Shay shudders, remembering last night's raid and the glimmer of another scene from the more distant past. She ducks her head and flees the hulking shadow of the wooden apparatus, as if she could outrun the sharp teeth of memory.
She soon makes her way to the seedier side of the medina, its abandoned buildings rendered soft in the pink haze of early light, and tucked amid them, her destination. Morning breeze teases the fabric of an elaborate tent, sewn in patchwork design and bedecked with glittery sequins.
Shay's heart pulses like a living thing inside her throat.
Dounia's Delights.
She doesn't believe—can't believe—Ghita would lie, yet the vagueness of the midwife's narrative certainly suggests she's hiding something. Shay thought she would stay in Nezjar forever. She'd care for Ghita as she grew old, and only after the midwife had squeezed out every last drop of a long and satisfying life would Shay have taken over her position.
The brewery stands as quiet as a secret. The thick exterior rugs used to deter nighttime intruders have been rolled up. The heavy stones that hold them down are pushed aside. The door flap hangs open and untied. It's early. Shay thought she might have to wait around a while, but is the barkeep who heard and proceeded to spread the touched one's claims about her stolen baby already here? And what will Shay say to her if she is?
She has no idea what form the answers she seeks will take. She only knows with sudden conviction that not being a burden isn't enough after all. Shay wants to be loved, to fill the mother-shaped emptiness inside her.
Stiff corners press between her shoulder blades. The ticket wedges in the hood of her djellaba, a practical feature of the garment that does double duty as a head covering in harsh weather and a spacious storage compartment when needed. She brought the parchment with her as though it might otherwise disappear. To Shay, it is a symbol that she has achieved success in the eyes ofher teacher—and, in so doing, lost her position in the only place she's ever called home.
If there's any possibility, however small, that the claims have merit, Shay owes it to herself to investigate the matter. Before she's shipped off on a caravan to Kiddah, where she'll have to start all over, having forfeited any chance at understanding where she's from. Heart wild, she nudges the flap wider and steps into the establishment proper.
Thick sugary clouds swirl above a handful of dinged-up tables. A couple of middle-aged men smoke shisha and play a game of tuti in the back. Shay isn't sure what she expected, but the reality is less than exciting, although the atmosphere would presumably enliven after dark.
Shay sidles up to a long bar counter. She quietly takes in the strange and colorful bottles that line the shelving unit behind it. The barkeep is balanced atop a wooden stool, inspecting the bottles and replacing those found empty. Shiny locks smoothly drape her shoulders, their straight press no doubt achieved by wielding a comb dipped into a jar of lava procured by B'hamu divers—rumored to be part merfolk—from volcanic caves under the Cerabbi Sea.
“Labas?” Shay tempers the volume of her greeting but still manages to startle the woman, who wobbles unsteadily before climbing down from the stool.
“Labas, Lalla. I didn't hear you come in.” The woman slaps a hand to the bodice of the stylish blue takchita she wears cinched with a thick belt. She has richly dark skin, lushly flared curves, and her wide eyes are rimmed in kohl. Idly, she massages the palm of one hand with the other and flexes her elegant fingers. “I'm afraid the brewery is not yet open for business.”
“But you have customers …” Shay glances uncertainly toward the back table.
“My uncle and brother,” the barkeep says dismissively.
When Shay doesn't move, the woman produces a prettily embroidered handkerchief from below the counter and uses it to dab invisible sweat from her hairline. “You're welcome to come back at midday.”
Shay swallows her nerves. They squirm in her stomach. “I … actually wanted to talk to you.”
The barkeep's brown eyes soften. She shakes her head. “We're not hiring right now.”
“Not about that.” Shay shakes her own head, groping for words. “About a customer. A woman … a touched one.”
“You'll have to give me more to go on.” The barkeep slings the cloth over her shoulder and crosses her arms.
“Her name might be Hind?”
Frown lines etch across the woman's forehead. She grunts. “Hind is a common name.”
Something sours in her tone, and her lip twitches in repugnance, making Shay suspect she knows more. She looks closer at the cloth flung over the woman's shoulder, woven in the style of the blankets Nezjar is known for. “May I see your handkerchief?”
The barkeep grabs the cloth and looks at it, her nose wrinkling. “It's soiled. I can get you something clean …”
“I want to see the embroidery.”
Nodding, the barkeep relinquishes the cloth, which Shay unfolds. Many washings have left the cotton fabric rough, but the threads have retained their vibrance. The rich patterns in which they are arranged attest to the artistry of a talented seamstress. “Did you make this?”
“Do you like it?” The barkeep smiles, a smile so thin that it may as well be a clover bean leaf slapped over a musket wound. Sadness seeps through like blood.
“It's beautiful.” Shay scans the mostly empty tent. She imagines how busy it must get, filled with rowdy customers and individuals of ill repute. “Why work here when you possess such talent?”
