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“A few weeks ago, at the local library. We bumped into each other and my books went everywhere. He helped me pick it all up, and we started talking.”
“What’s his name? What does he do? Where is he from?” I bombarded her with questions.
“He’s a scholar from Tidar who is here to investigate what effect ghoul blood has on burn scars.”
“Ghoul blood?”
Greenish-black ichor that infected and killed living creatures. That blood? I wouldn’t want to get my hands on that, let alone have it touch my skin. A radical new treatment for burn scars? Stranger things had happened, I supposed.
“Yes.”
“A scholar and a medic! Aunt Zoulikha must be proud—that’s exactly what she wanted for you.”
Souhir frowned—a rare expression for the usually cheerful girl.
“I haven’t told her yet,” she admitted.
“Why not?”
“You know she’ll get expectations.”
If a young guy just glanced at a woman, the matrons of Midar would organize his wedding before he could say “Salaam” They were always matchmaking, always prodding us to find a nice boy and settle down.
“I think you’re overthinking this,” I said. “But if it makes you feel better, I won’t say anything. Your secret is safe with me. Maybe it’s love, but maybe it’s companionship? We don’t know. You should have the time to figure it out without outdated preconceptions. But your sudden scholarly endeavors make a bit more sense to me now.”
“Thank you, Thimsal. I knew I could trust you with this. You understand me so well.”
“Of course, dear.”
Aunt Zoulikha would find out eventually—but for now, Souhir could enjoy her little secret. And who knew? Maybe it would turn into something more.
“How about you?”
“Romance? You know, it’s not something I’m looking for right now. Right now I’m focused on me.”
Miryam walked into the room, dressed in a long, flowing cape that covered her from head to toe. Her face was veiled by a sheer fabric covered with diamonds, but her eyes blazed with intensity.
The tent grew quiet as Myriam sat down on the raised podium. After that, seven women dressed in simple white kaftans with a bright flower wreath around their waist and another on their head joined her. The first one carried a basket of bloody menstrual rags, while the other six women each held a bucket containing water with rose petals, sliced up fruit, and honey. Symbolizing life, death, and fertility.
They filled the tiny stone pond on the platform with water. The pond was too small to bathe in but just big enough for a woman to sit in with her knees drawn up to her chest.
When they were done, they bowed and left. One girl remained standing behind Myriam. Carefully, she handed the basket to Miryam.
The women moved into position around her, forming a circle around her as they waited for further instructions.
“It is time.” Myriam’s voice was soft, but it carried throughout the room.
The other guests rushed to wash their hands in the water while whispering their hearts’ desires.
Souhir and I took a few steps closer.
Souhir looked at me. “Are you planning to?”
“No, I have no desire to ask for a child or to bless my non-existent field with crops.”
Souhir furrowed her brows. “It’s more than that. Don’t act like that.”
“I know. I’ll cast something next time.”
