“I know enough to hide from the rain,” she snapped.
“Of course. I apologize. I’m only excited, this problem has been plaguing me for days—” He dug into a drawer and found a set of gloves—leather, like the apron—then filled the shallow iron trough with the silver bricks and lifted it above the forge. At once they began to slump and melt; within moments they were entirely liquid. He set it back on the floor and crouched over it, staring intently. “The glass is lighter than the tin, it should float on top—Arbeely, can you hand me a—”
His voice stopped.
She stood there, not knowing what to do. He’d gone still; she couldn’t see his face. “Jinni?” she said, her voice small in the echoing space.
Slowly he sat back, away from the melted tin, his head in his hands. “Why am I doing this?” he muttered.
She crouched down next to him, gently lifted his face to look at her. “Because you’ve been alone among them for far too long,” she told him. “But that’s over now. Come back with me.”
His eyes were glazed with confusion. “Back—where?”
“The Cursed City.” A spasm of fear passed across his face, and she said, “No, remember, there is nothing to be afraid of. It’s my own habitation now, and it can be yours, too.”
He seemed to hear this. “But—what would I do there?”
“Explore. Lie with me. Whatever you wish.”
He took this in, then looked up at the spiraling steel above them, the tree and its many moons. “I wished for this, for so long,” he said.
Did he mean her offer, or his own metal creation? She didn’t want to ask. Outside, the sunlight was nearly gone. Perhaps it was best to give him time. She said, “I’ll go away, for a little while, so you may consider it.”
He looked puzzled. “Where will you go?”
“The arch, the one that the healer spoke of. It feels a little like home, to me.”
He nodded. “More so than here, I suppose.”
She smiled at that, but said only, “I’ll return tomorrow.” Then she changed and flew up, watching as he diminished, and was gone again.
* * *
In their apartment above the coffee-house, Maryam spooned helpings of fattoush and mujaddara onto Sayeed’s plate. Then she sat at the table, clasped her hands together, and asked the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit to bless their meal. For a few minutes they ate in heavy silence.
“I can go to Sam’s tomorrow,” Sayeed said at last. “I’ll talk with him. Ask him not to spread rumors.”
Maryam had no appetite; she’d done little more than push the food about with a fork, and was hoping Sayeed wouldn’t notice. “Perhaps we should let it happen,” she said. “Everyone will disagree on what ought to be done about him. Maybe they’ll tire themselves out with talking, and move on to something else.”
Sayeed shook his head in clear doubt—and in her heart she doubted it too. Perhaps she’d only made matters worse, in the end. Her neighbors’ curiosity had been bottled for far too long. Now it would be unleashed—and what might he unleash in return? She thought of the patch in the alley, and shivered.
“Maryam?”
The room swam for a moment; she shivered again, suddenly chilled. Sayeed put a hand to her forehead and frowned; she realized that she was sweating. “You must go to bed, beloved,” he said firmly. “No, leave the dishes, I’ll do them.”
She allowed him to shepherd her to the bedroom, fighting dizziness. “I don’t think you’re going to Mass in the morning,” Sayeed told her.
Her head touched the pillow, and at once her fatigue began to swallow her. “I told Father Stephen I’d lead the rosary,” she murmured as Sayeed turned down the lamp.
“I’ll explain to Father Stephen.”
What a nuisance, to be ill at such a time, she thought—and then, she was asleep.
* * *
Anna returned from her suffrage meeting that night to find the light burning in their apartment window.
That’s strange, she thought. Toby was usually out at this hour, on one of his joy-rides. Sometimes she wanted to curse the day she’d ever let the Golem buy him that bicycle. She limped slowly up the stairs and opened the door.
Toby sat at the kitchen table, occupied with his gears and parts and polish. He’d spread a cloth over the table first, she saw. And he’d picked up his clothing from the parlor floor, too.
“Hi, Ma,” he said, without looking up.
Anna hung up her coat and looked around. A pot full of beefsteak tomato soup sat upon the kitchen stove. Steam rose from the teapot on its trivet. At her usual spot at the table lay a plate of sardines on toast, a bowl of the soup, a cup and saucer, and her latest issue of The Woman Voter. The kitchen smelled delicious: fish and toast and tomatoes, and something else, something sweet.
Warily she eyed the tableau. “All right, boychik. What’s going on?”
“Nothing, Ma.”
“Did you break something? Did Julius fire you?”
“No!” His face reddened. “I just thought it would be nice for you, that’s all. Honest to God.”
Anna looked at the supper, and then at her son, who still wouldn’t meet her eyes. She could interrogate him, extract the secret from him, whatever it was. Or, just this once, she could leave him alone.
She went to the cabinet above the sink—the sweet smell was stronger, here—and found her bottle of schnapps. She poured a healthy splash into the waiting teacup, and topped it with tea. Then she fetched another cup and saucer, poured more tea, and carried the two brimming cups to the table. She set his cup among his things, then sat down across from him, opened the magazine, and took a bite of the toast. Toby hesitated a moment, then took his own deliberate sip and went back to work, dotting the length of the bicycle chain with something out of a metal syringe. He could’ve been a doctor, Anna thought, watching him. Or a scientist, in a laboratory.
