Shay holds both Shadi's and Khawla's hands to keep one of them from getting lost in the fray. The three move as a unit, like boats tied together on the ocean. They stop in front of a fire pit where Shadi grabs them a skewer of lamb each. The street food is a treat Ghita never allowed Shay due to her poor digestion. She digs her teeth into the meat, savory spices tingling over her taste buds. They devour the qotban and lick the grease from their fingers.
Still uneasy, Shay searches the shop windows and street signs, looking for the posters Aidi described. The fact that she doesn't find any gives her hope. Maybe her alleged crime has been forgotten, replaced by the passage of time with matters more current and of greater urgency.
Would she return to her old life if she discovered herself to be free? Or would she go somewhere new?Becomesomething new? The thought is daunting. Shay wonders if a newly hatched butterfly ever wishes it could go back to the familiar confines of its cocoon.
Khawla pulls her toward one of the small bands scattered throughout the festival. The rebel girl lifts her arms high and dances with graceful swirls and shimmies. Her body moves the way water cascades from a precipice, like it's only natural. Shadi dances too, unencumbered by his heavy headdress, his enthusiasm making up for any lack of grace. He throws Shay a shy smile.
The steady pulse of music builds to a pounding in her core. The revelry around her tangles with her memories of the long-ago hanging, the rabid heckling of the crowd. Her chest squeezes. She recalls the bone-eaters’ frequent warnings that she stay inside and not open the door. Perhaps she should not have come here, where everything feels too colorful, too loud, and too … much.
“Are you well, Lalla?” Shadi asks, concern creasing his brow. “Can I get you something to drink?”
His sudden nearness momentarily steadies her. She nods, managing to say, “Yes, please.”
But as he rushes off, the crowd closes in again. Shay stumbles back. She bumps into woman draped in heavy furs. A mask that looks like a real animal skull covers her face. And behind the gaping socket holes, her eyes are sheets of white. The apology on Shay's lips evaporates as the woman grabs her arm for balance.
“Have a look at you,” she slurs, crooning. “Your makeup looks amazing. Did you do that yourself?”
“N-no,” Shay sputters, still overwhelmed, as Khawla steps up beside her. “My friend helped.”
Despite her misgivings about the festival, the wordfriendtastes sweet on Shay's lips. It feels true. Or at least possible.
“Arbia, come see how utterly creepy this costume is,” the first woman calls to a second woman wearing a purple feathered mask. Shay flinches at the sharp hook of its beak, too close in resemblance to the bird form the bloodsucker once wore.
“Look at those teeth,” Arbia exclaims, approaching and admiring Khawla's makeup. “I'm so impressed. Come here so I can see you better.”
The women draw Khawla apart from the crowd, fawning over her as they go. And Shay follows along, relieved to escape the jostling dancers.
“I think we should invite them to our private party,” the first woman says, to which Khawla casts Shay a wary glance.
“Yes!” Arbia yells before noticing Khawla and Shay's mutual hesitation. She nudges her companion with her elbow.
“How rude of me,” the first woman says. “We're Labiba and Arbia.” In turn, they each lower their heads. “And who are you lovely beasties?”
“I'm Loubna, and this is Houda,” Khawla supplies, thinking on the spot.
“So pleased to meet you,” Arbia says. “Now that we've been properly introduced, it would be our great honor invite you to a private party we're hosting.”
“It's very exclusive,” Labiba interjects.
“What kind of party?” Khawla asks, her voice clipped. She retreats a step from the women. Alarmed, Shay wonders if Khawla's disguise may not be working after all.
“Tell me, Lalla, have you ever delved into the lustrous dark?” Labiba asks with all the warmth of melted sugar. She shifts her fur pelt to the side and runs a long fingernail across the belt that loops her narrow waist. Its straps hold a multitude of tiny bottles.
Shay knows as soon as she sees them—the woman aren't plotting to turn her in at all; they're touched ones peddling liquid magic. Bottled pleasure. And, for those whose hearts are broken beyond repair, those all out of wishes, a ready means of escape.
“Not interested,” Khawla says, glowering at the bottles.
“What about you, Lalla?” The woman quirks her head at Shay.
She opens her mouth, certain her response will echo Khawla's, baffled when her throat falls sterile. Arbia slides her hand around Labiba's waist. She plucks a shiny bottle from the belt and holds it out. “The rush is like riding the biggest wave in the Cerabbi or floating upon the highest cloud over Umm Chanala.”
Of course, being blitzed must feel amazing. Why else would a mother choose Snow over her own daughter? Shay glances at Khawla. The rebel girl raises her hand as if to deliver an objection, but only covers her mouth, the disapproval in her eyes speaking volumes.
All Shay can think is that if she knew how it felt for Hind, maybe she'd understand. Maybe her mother's betrayal would hurt a little less. Or maybe she just wouldn't care. “I haven't.”
“Oooh, the first time is the best,” Labiba gushes.
“I wonder what your Shawafa would be?” Arbia giggles. “Would you be a Jinnamin like me?” She extends one arm, and her hand lights with a red glow. A faint crackle, as a small flame blossoms from the center of her upturned palm and hovers in the air above it.
