Mister Ahmad looked down at the small square of paper—first with alarm, and then confusion. He struggled to sit up higher, and unfolded it. Whatever was there made his eyes go wide. He looked up at Toby. “Did she show you?”
“No. And I didn’t peek, either.”
The man folded it again, closed a fist around it. Toby watched as a tiny wisp of smoke rose from his clenched hand. He felt himself grow resentful. Yes, they’d been lovers, and it was a private message—but it was also another piece hidden from his sight.
Mister Ahmad was watching him. “How much do you know?”
Was it going to be another guessing-game? “How about this,” he said. “You tell me everything you know, and I’ll tell you what surprised me.”
A rueful smile. “I think not. Your mother wouldn’t thank me for it. And neither would Chava.” His voice was getting stronger, Toby was sure of it. The man stared at the setting sun for a moment, then said, “The cable you peeked at. I never read it. What did it say?”
Toby recited it word for word, finishing with Chava Levy must not know. The man considered this, then said, “You saw Sophia, didn’t you?”
Toby nodded, slightly abashed. Somehow it had been easier to tell Missus Chava about his spying. “I went to the hotel,” he said. “And there was a—Wait.” He paused, thinking. “Someone else was there in the room, but I couldn’t see them. Felt like a ghost. Was that your disappearing lady?”
“Yes, almost certainly.” He frowned, thinking. “Was Sophia acting on her own? Not . . . controlled, or coerced?”
“I’d guess so—but I can’t say for sure. She was sick and shivering, though. Nearly fainted in front of me. Did the disappearing lady do that to her?”
Mister Ahmad glanced away. “No. Someone else did.” For a moment the man looked unutterably sad. Then he said, “Will you deliver a message for me?”
Toby pulled out a blank and a pencil, and handed them over. “Where am I taking it?”
The man wrote, and handed them back. “Just down the street. The coffee-house between Rector and Morris. I don’t know the address.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Give it to Maryam Faddoul, or her husband, Sayeed. No one else. And then go home, Toby.”
“What, and just leave you here?”
“I’ll be better soon.”
Toby snorted. “Like hell you will. Your forge is broken, and the sun’s going down.” And then, at the man’s surprise: “Look, you lit an envelope on fire in front of me, remember? I can put two and two together. You need warmth, or light, or maybe both.” He paused. “Are you a demon?”
The man smiled. “No. I’m not a demon. And no, I can’t tell you. Your mother would never forgive me. Now, will you promise to go to the Faddouls’ and then straight home?”
Toby put the blank in his pocket, stood. Looked uneasily at the man.
“Deliver that message,” Mister Ahmad said, “and I’ll be fine.”
* * *
In agony the injured jinniyeh flew slowly north.
She fought against the currents, barely holding herself together, picturing Washington Square, the Hotel Earle, the open window. She could heal there, if she managed to reach it—but then what? The iron-bound jinni was dying, perhaps already dead. And even if he survived, he’d never go to the Cursed City with her now. Why would he agree to stay with a lover who’d delivered such punishment?
She kept on. The sun helped, though it was growing low in the sky. At last, the park and its arch appeared, and she shuddered with relief. She imagined Sophia asleep in the bed, fighting to escape—and felt a new and disturbing pang of remorse. Perhaps she’d treated the woman too harshly. She would release her, the jinniyeh decided—and then, when Sophia returned across the ocean, the jinniyeh could follow her in secret. With Sophia to lead her, she would find her way back to the Cursed City, and survive.
Alone, Sophia wandered the desert.
How long had she been here, searching for a way out? Days, weeks? She’d drunk the last of her water ages ago. Sometimes the desert was her parents’ ballroom, its parquet buried beneath the sand; sometimes it was the remains of the Damascus souk, the stalls empty and crumbling. Sometimes she remembered that she was dreaming, that Dima had trapped her here, inside her mind—but then the landscape would cloud over, and she would think herself to be waking, only to realize she was somewhere else, still searching, there was no end to it, she would certainly die here—
A naked woman appeared before her, holding a hand to her side as though injured. Wincing, the woman reached up, grabbed hold of the sky, and ripped downward. The entire landscape began to peel away like an orange rind—
In the last twenty-four hours, the lobby of the Hotel Earle had taken on a considerable air of intrigue.
The desk-clerk was gone, fired by the outraged manager for his thoughtless and indiscreet call to the Herald. But word had spread nevertheless, and the Herald’s man in the lobby had since been joined by half a dozen other newspaper-men, all looking for the scoop. There was no real evidence that the woman in Room 812 had used the name Winston at all—but this had been set aside as immaterial. She was either the heiress herself, or was pretending to be; both were stories fit for the papers.
The manager wrung his hands and watched the clock, smiling weakly at passing guests. The lieutenant from the precinct-house sat nearby, dusting his hat with his sleeve. Only he and the manager would be allowed to enter Room 812, and confront its occupant, before returning to the lobby to give a full and truthful account of what had transpired. The newspaper-men had objected, but to no avail. Now they perched on the sofas, penciling their drafts, leaving spaces for the details yet to come.
The lobby door opened—and the widow herself appeared.
The manager nearly fell over himself to reach her side, casting apologies like lilies at
