Shay finds him bent over an ovular fountain made of shiny brass, washing his feet and hands. She removes her leather slippers and does the same. The coolwater makes her skin pop out in goose bumps. After, she wraps her scarf over her hair and begins to untie her shawl to use as a mat. Shadi holds up a hand to stop her. From a straw basket tucked against the base of a tamarisk tree, he shakes out two soft-worn rugs and lays them facing the holy city of Kiddah.
Shadi's voice falls easily into the Old Tongue. The sacred words ring musically in Shay's ears, lulling her into a trancelike space where she's temporarily freed from life's pressures. The constant weight of earning Ghita's approval. The deeper undefined ache that permeates her existence. She finds she agrees with Shadi's sentiment; praying on the ground feels better than a floor. As though the grass and trees and even the breeze that gently tugs her skirt are joining them in worship.
She's still kneeling in supplication when the rise and fall of laughter filters through the shrubbery. The volley of chatter continues as she and Shadi fold and put away their rugs. The meaningless hum of words slide past her ears like wind until the familiar sound of her name makes her jolt.
If her name were less uncommon, she might brush it off. It's not her habit to listen in on other people's conversations. She has never been one to partake in idle gossip. And she certainly has never done anything so noteworthy as to be the subject of it.
Shay's frequent illnesses prohibit her from most social events, and her dedication to her apprenticeship leaves her little time for leisure. If her lack of friends ever bothers her, she consoles herself that it makes her damning secret easier to conceal.
Shay's curiosity tumbles toward mortification as the topic of discussion becomes clear. Someone who was at the birth is recounting to the others how the baby's outcome had teetered in the balance, the way Shay faltered in those critical moments, freezing up.
“It borders on incompetence if you ask me,” the tale-teller huffs. “And as someone who plans to have a large family, I find it concerning.”
“A large family?” A new voice interjects. “You can't even keep a houseplant alive.”
“Rude,” the original speaker grunts. “And entirely beside my point.”
“Well, I feel bad for her,” another voice says. “I imagine her studies are rigorous. The few times our paths have crossed, she always looks exhausted, like she's been up all night. And I heard she was orphaned as a baby. So sad.”
“Also, beside the point. Now, you all know I'm not a harsh judge of character”—the first person pauses when someone snickers in response to this assertion, likely to glare at them—”but it's enough to make me seriously consider binding my own stomach and birthing my future children with my legs propped to the wall.”
Shay's gut twists, heat scorching the tips of her ears. She might lack Ghita's wealth of experience, but she's notincompetent. It's this day that has her turned inside out. Every cycle, she thinks she's moved past this vortex of emotions, and every cycle, she's wrong.
She turns to Shadi to inquire whether the garden has some rear exit, but he's already pushing through the shrubs, oblivious to both Shay's distress and the conversation causing it. Shay has little choice but to follow him, through a cloud of cloying floral that induces a surge of nausea, and back out to the terrace.
A group of servants, previously engaged in the hanging of newly washed birth linens from a rope stretched across the tiles, stops and stares at them. Most wear guilty looks, but the face of one girl burns with something unsettlingly close to glee.
“What were the two of you doing back there?” She wiggles her eyebrows, undoubtedly fishing for a new scandal to fuel her gossip.
“We were praying …” Shadi supplies, confusion thick in his voice and his blank face a testament of innocence.
“Praying?” The girl scoffs. She hides her face partially behind a sheet, more suggestive than shy. “Or having a frolic in the grass?”
She turns her hungry gaze on Shay, who feels compelled to run a hand over her head, thus liberating a stray leaf from the clutches of her hair and sending it fluttering downward as if to prove the girl's point. Shay's face simmers.
“You misunderstand, Lalla. I'm the midwife's apprentice,” she says, which seems to her an airtight defense. It's common knowledge that midwives seldommarry, a fact that, Shay realizes when her words fail to have their intended impact, isbeside the point.
“I know who you are.” The girl throws the sheet back into the basket on the ground and steps around it. “But perhaps you should reconsider your vocation.”
“C'mon, leave her alone,” another servant mutters weakly. “I told you she's an orphan.”
“That's not what I heard.” The girl's lips sharpen to a scythe of a smile, and she takes another step toward Shay that carries the weight of an invisible strike. She casts a wide glance like a net, ensuring she's caught the attention of the other servants. “I have it on good authority there's more to the story.”
Shay shifts nervously, wrapping her arms around her torso. Stirrings of dread flutter through her. But there's no way anyone could know about the hidden parts of her identity. The girl is bluffing; Shay just can't work out her motive, other than enjoying the spectacle.
Some people are like that. They thrive off others’ discomfort the way the monsters beyond Al-Ghaba Mayita feast upon the bones of the buried, the blood of the wayward traveler.
“Whose authority is that?” Shadi steps close enough to create a barrier between Shay and the other girl. “And please don't say it's your khala who barkeeps at the brewery.”
“What if it is?” the girl answers him, her eyes never leaving Shay. “Everyone has a story to tell, or a secret to hide, and the offerings at Dounia's Delights have a way of loosening the stiffest of tongues.”
“They also have a way of loosening minds.” Shadi chuckles dismissively, and the servant finally looks at him and frowns. “I hardly think the ramblings of those who are drunk or blitzed are worth repeating. Does anyone disagree?”
He looks sternly at each of the servants in turn. One by one they go back to their work, seemingly shamed by the stark beam of his gaze. Shay has to admit she's impressed. Even more so when, after he turns to face the girl again, she, too, succumbs to his influence, giving Shay the slightest nod by way of apology and backing off.
Who is this boy who by all reason bears little authority yet wields the power of a withering glare with an effectiveness to rival Ghita's?
He takes Shay's hand. His fingers brush the raised lines of her scars before settling firmly against hers. His skin is warm, yet she shivers as if it were cold. She's unaccustomed to having strangers—or anyone for that matter—touch her so unexpectedly, but too stunned to pull away. He tugs her back through the kitchen to a small alcove that serves as a pantry and turns to her.
