She wonders how Ghita has fared in her absence. And Sami. And her beloved crew of strays. The truth, she now perceives, is she always needed them more than they needed her.
A sigh slips from her throat like a ghost. She never really belonged here, did she? In a strange way, Hind has spared her. Prevented her from accepting a life she may not have chosen had more than one path ever been offered.
Her second thought is more of an observation. The moon hanging over Nezjar wears its natural face of gold-white marble. No glowing film of ominous red, icy blue, or mystical silver. It's as though within Al-Ghaba Mayita, and Ard Al-Ghul beyond, things appear differently. Perhaps, in some ways, they appear truer to the way they really are, the hidden made visible.
A whistle from the darkness interrupts her introspection. The boy who must be Khawla's friend steps from the shadows. Shay can only blink. A long headdress made of a goat's pelt frames the face of someone she hasn't thought about in some time but has also never quite forgotten.
He squints back at her for a long moment, and then he smiles.
17
Man of Skins
A wicked man once chased a maiden, who sought refuge in a sacred place. And, oh, the things he did to her there, the shame and the disgrace.
The spirits bore witness to his crimes, and though they did not intervene, An animal departed that place, and the man never again was seen.
Gifted horns and a whip-thin tail and sprouting pelt where naked flesh should be, He henceforth wore his deeds in outward form, for all the world to see.
—fromRhymes of Rage: A Poetry Collection
Shadi's hair has grown out, dark curls hugging tightly to his earlobes. But his gapped smile—the one making everything in Shay's stomach melt in what surely must be some allergic reaction—is as big and annoyingly irresistible as ever.
“Do you two know each other?” Khawla asks, her voice sounding unnaturally innocent.
“No,” Shay says.
“Yes,” Shadi says at the same time.
“Not well,” Shay attempts to clarify. Her face feels heavy and stiff beneath her makeup. If Shadi knows who she is, so could anyone else. She frowns at him. “How did you recognize me?”
“Your eyes …” Shadi clears his throat. “They're, um, brown.”
“Yes, I have brown eyes.” Shay nods slowly as though speaking to an easily distracted child. “As does more than half the population.”
“Right.” Shadi gulps. With half his face bathed in moonlight, half secreted in shadow, Shay can't determine whether he's embarrassed or confused. “But yours have this touch of dusty gray. It's like there are these soft clouds floating in them.”
“Shadi, explain what's going on,” Khawla demands, but her barely suppressed smile suggests the question could just be an act.
“Do you remember the girl I told you about, the midwife's apprentice?” Shadi speaks from the side of his mouth, fiddling with his thumb.
Wait—why would he have told Khawla about her? And why does the idea of it fill Shay's chest with warm flutters instead of the irritation she would prefer?
Khawla rounds her mouth. “Oh right, I must have forgotten about that.”
Shay chooses to ignore whatever Khawla is up to, turning her focus to the satisfying rush of vindication. She knew Shadi was hiding something. Now she just has to decide whether his being with the Sisterhood makes her trust him more or less. And she can't let any leaky stomachs or chests palpitations or otherconditionscloud her judgement. She feels the weight of the hjabat along the groove of her clavicle, secured there by a cord hung around her neck and tucked beneath her kaftan's bodice.
Distant pops and bright flashes usurp their attention as festivalgoers burn bamboo bangers filled with gunpowder, steel dust, and iron shavings in the distance.
Shay plasters on a smile that threatens to crack the paint around her lips. “Let's go see what this festival is all about, shall we?”
“Yes!” Shadi and Khawla agree.
The hooves on the girls’ bracelets clink softly as the trio makes its way up the central hill to the medina. Up top, the louder sounds of beating tbilat and trilling ghayyat take over, and then they descend into a sea of singing voices that usher them through the festival entrance. By the time they reach the main thoroughfare, the very air has turned charged.
The clamor of laughter and chanting and the aromas of spit-roasted meshwi and fried rings of sfenj swirl in a sensory stew. Colorful lanterns and bright torches abound. Children weave through the crowd, waving small rattle drums. Old men hand out bowls of snails in steaming broth, and women pour tea for passersby. Dancers form lines and circles and twirl colorful flags or clack handheld iron qraqeb as they take turns performing acrobatic kicks and mesmerizing spins to the hypnotic rhythm.
Elaborate sheepskin and cowhide costumes and wooden masks render anyone Shay might know unrecognizable, easing her fears that someone else may identify her with the same ease that Shadi had. She keeps a cautious eye out for Moulays, but even they seem to have been given the night off from their duties.
