Keep it, Mama, Maryam pleaded.
That is cowardice, her mother told her gently.
But I’m so tired, Maryam said. And my fever’s returned.
She wondered at her own words—returned?—and then recalled, there in the dream, the story that her mother had told her so many times, of the terrible fever Maryam had suffered as a baby.
Her mother nodded and said, I took you to Jounieh Bay, to the Cave of Saint George, where the spear was washed clean of the dragon’s blood. I plunged you into the healing waters, and you were cured. Remember that.
But to what end, Mama? Maryam cried. I am no saint, and he is no monster for me to slay—
She stopped short, and then said again, more slowly, He is no monster.
And you are no saint, said her mother, smiling.
Then what should I do?
You must keep your vigil, her mother said—
And Maryam woke.
* * *
The mug of tea on the corner of Charlotte Levy’s desk had long since cooled. In the middle of the blotter was a pile of student evaluations, waiting for her attention.
The smoke-filled hallway. The girl ahead of her, somewhere in the darkness. Words cried out, lost in the noise of the flames. The feeling of something coming to life nearby, something waking.
She shook herself. Those were someone else’s memories. She was Charlotte Levy, a cooking teacher at the Asylum for Orphaned Hebrews. Her students adored her, and she improved their lives daily, in little ways. She taught them to read recipes, clarify broths, separate eggs. She kept a predictable and ordinary life, and she had never once been late with her student evaluations.
She removed the first paper in the stack, picked up her pen.
Miss Bernstein has made considerable progress this semester. She is still easily distractible, but I am convinced she is trying her best. More to the point, she has been, so far as I can tell, completely truthful with me since last term’s unfortanate
She frowned at the misspelling.
unfortanate unfortunate incident, and I suspect the lesson has been lea
Her hand twitched, too tense on the pen—and the a grew an ugly and elongated tail.
“Porca miseria!” she growled—and then, horrified at herself, tossed the pen on the desk and pressed her hands to her eyes, pushing back against the memories. Why should it matter if Chava Levy had chased a girl into a burning tenement, or felt a golem come to life? What difference could it make when the bare facts were still the same? He was a threat to the children, regardless of his master’s attachment to him. And if she ignored the danger—if she allowed it to continue—it would be her own fault if the worst happened.
Nothing had changed. She had to destroy him.
19.
I could go home.
The Jinni lifted a heavy pane of glass from the molten tin. To his genuine astonishment, his idea had worked, and not a single pane had broken since. Even so, it was still a delicate operation; he had to stand the panes on end to wipe the tin away, a nerve-racking process in itself. Already he’d begun to imagine a moving bath of some sort, the glass poured atop it at one end and then cooling as it went. Perhaps he could convert the forge, somehow . . .
Or, he thought again, I could go home.
But what would that mean, exactly? His memories of the desert were from a different life entirely. The jinniyeh seemed to think it would be easy for him—yet could he truly live there as her iron-bound jinni? Walking among the Cursed City’s columns instead of flying high above, avoiding the Bedu for fear that they’d think him one of their own?
The Cursed City, the fabled land of monsters. It had a certain defiant appeal, he supposed. Would it only be the two of them? Perhaps there were others who would come and join them, if only they knew. He let himself imagine it: a city of outcasts, united in exile. Would it be enough to hold them together, or would they tear themselves apart in squabbling? How long could it possibly last? Already he sensed that the jinniyeh only barely tolerated him, that he’d have to change himself to suit her. But then, perhaps she was right about him. Perhaps he’d strayed too far from his nature, gone beyond mere difference, and into perversion, obscenity.
He stood the pane on its end, steadied it with a careful hand while he wiped away the streaks of tin. What about the Amherst? What would happen to it, if he left? He’d only just solved the problem of the glass, and there were still so many panes to make . . . In his old life, he’d have thought nothing of abandoning such an undertaking, usually at the moment it grew too demanding to hold his interest. Now, he balked at the notion. Perhaps he could ask the jinniyeh to wait here, with him, until the Amherst was done—but—
Something’s missing. The thought prickled at him like fog. He’d forgotten something, it was staring him in the face, and he couldn’t even see it—
Chava would know. The thought rose unbidden, but at once he knew it was correct. She would take one look at his imperfect creation, and she’d know. And if he left, if he went to the desert, he’d never see her again . . .
The world swayed suddenly; he closed his eyes.
You said we weren’t good for each other, she told him as they fell from the roof together. Was that a lie?
No. A pause. Perhaps. I don’t know.
You wanted to hurt me, she said.
Yes.
So I would hurt you back. So I’d be the one to end it.
Something was always bound to end us, Chava. Another burning
