His story gave me so much strength, she realized, that I never imagined he might be weaker than me.
But that was unfair of her! After all, what tale had he been told during his years of hiding in this terrible human city, thinking himself utterly alone in the world? And now that she was here, now that she understood . . .
Perhaps she could tell a story that would give him strength.
Once, there was a jinniyeh who feared no iron. Banished from her tribe, she decided to seek out the iron-bound jinni, and rescue him. Alone, without aid, she braved oceans and ships and cities, searching for his hiding-place in the human world, so that she might teach him how to be a jinni again.
It was a good beginning. She would return, and start over again. But first . . .
She looked out above the treetops, at the Hotel Earle.
Sophia woke slowly. Was it morning? How long had she been asleep? She was in her hotel room, but she couldn’t remember going to bed . . .
She squinted against the light trickling through the curtains. The jinniyeh was perched upon the settee, her knees drawn to her chin, watching her. “Are you awake?” the jinniyeh said.
“Yes, I am.” Sophia stretched, and sat up. She felt immeasurably better, though she could do with breakfast . . .
“Here.” The jinniyeh lifted a cup and saucer from the desk and brought them to Sophia. “I heated it for you.” She pointed to the metal teapot on the desk, the one the kitchen had sent up the night before. Steam was rising from its spout.
Sophia smiled. “Thank you, Dima. I doubt I would’ve thought of that.” She sipped at the tea, trying not to wince; it had gone bitter from sitting all night in the pot. But the jinniyeh seemed happy that she was drinking it, so she finished the cup. “We ought to plan the day,” she said.
The jinniyeh poured more tea. “What do you propose?”
“First I’ll go to Little Syria and see what I can find. I don’t want to raise your hopes, but I found an address for him in an old directory. He might still be there. Or, if he isn’t, perhaps I can find someone who’ll help us.”
The jinniyeh was listening, nervous, expectant. Sophia sipped the tea, thinking. “I’ll need a story to tell, a reason why I’m looking for him. I do wish you’d reconsider wearing clothes—you might be a cousin of his, or . . .”
She blinked, slowly. The teacup was drooping in her hand. She tried to raise it, but her hand felt too far away. And she was suddenly so tired . . .
The jinniyeh came to her side and lifted the cup from her hand before it could spill.
“Dima?” The word slurred in her mouth. Something was wrong; the jinniyeh had done something to her . . . She lurched to the side, trying to get away, but only succeeded in falling out of the bed and knocking over her trunk. Shawls, underclothes, her pistol all spilled out—along with her laudanum bottle, uncapped and empty.
Warm hands lifted her back onto the bed, placed her head upon the pillow. Sophia tried to fight her, but could barely clench her fists. Her head was swimming; she was nearly gone . . . Why? she tried to say, but it was only a whisper of air.
“This is your cure,” the jinniyeh told her gently. “Sleep. I’ll be there soon.”
She was in her parents’ ballroom, dressed in her wine-colored gown.
Every friend and acquaintance of her youth was there around her, every important personage her parents had ever ordered her to impress. She tried to smile, but she was terrified. She was hiding a secret, something they could never know. They’d send her away, call her mad; she must keep herself from shaking, so they couldn’t see . . .
In the crowd, a childhood friend turned to her and said, It’s all right, Sophia. We know it already. And we don’t think any less of you for it, not one bit.
Sophia stared. You don’t?
One of her mother’s acquaintances, a woman who’d always frightened Sophia with her narrow-eyed stares, now smiled at her in kind sympathy and said, Of course not! How could we possibly? It might have happened to any one of us!
They all nodded as they surrounded her, murmuring agreement and support. They ushered her to the fireplace, sat her in a well-appointed sofa, its cushions soft as clouds. Someone brought her a shawl, another a hot cup of tea. They arranged themselves around her, as though hoping she might tell them a tale. For a moment, Sophia glimpsed someone moving at the back of the crowd—a flash of bare skin and long dark hair—
What was Damascus like? said her brother in the front row. He was holding the carved wooden sword she’d sent him.
Tell us about the Pyramids, said her father next to him.
She looked to her mother, uncertain, but beginning to hope. Her mother nodded in encouragement and said, We’re so proud of you, darling. We want to hear everything.
Hesitantly she began to talk, telling them the stories she’d always wanted to tell: her journeys and searches and struggles, her triumphs and her losses. All of it the truth, without amendment or alteration. Daniel Benbassa and Ned Lawrence sat with their chins in their hands as she talked, utterly absorbed. Abu Alim and Umm Sahir nodded at every word. They’d never known the true Sophia—and now that she could tell them, how much better they all felt! There were no secrets anymore, and no judgments, either. She could be herself, she could be Sophia Winston again, and it didn’t mean rejection, or shame, or tragedy—only wholeness.
Behind the crowd, the jinniyeh went on building. It was easy work; Sophia’s thoughts were slow and thick, her defenses stilled. No hand came to grab at the jinniyeh as she searched out the woman’s deepest yearnings and molded them into being, like a house full of
