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He was taller than most and wore dark layered robes; on his head was a blackkafeyahtied with a braided rope. His clothes were immaculate, as if not so much as a grain of sand would dare to sully him.
Though unshaven, he was far from dishevelled; in fact, he was impeccably groomed. His face was chiselled, and though his eyes were an intense hazel, it was his mouth that drew her eyes.
‘I assume you know why you are here?’ he said and his English surprised her—or rather the clipped, well-schooled accent did.
She looked from his mouth to his eyes that flashed irritation at her lack of response, but she stared back without blinking.
Maggie refused to show fear.
And she refused to answer him.
She would say nothing until it was clear why she was here, Maggie had decided.
‘Did you really think that there would be no repercussions, Suzanne?’
And then she reversed her decision not to speak.
Of course it might be far safer to say nothing, but there was one thing this man just had to understand because Maggie was finally starting to—it really was all a mix-up. Perhaps a less than simple mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. Here was the rational explanation she had been searching for earlier.
And once he knew that, she would be free.
So she cleared her throat and stated her case.
‘I’m not Suzanne.’
