She sat up, carefully. They’d dressed her in a thin cotton gown; her stomach was tightly bandaged. She touched the spot where the bullet had entered her, and felt a row of stitches beneath the fabric. It ached slightly, but not nearly as much as she’d expected.
She pulled the bedclothes aside, swung her legs over the edge. The tile floor was cool beneath her feet. She stood, half expecting a rush of pain, or for the stitches to tear open—but neither happened. She felt . . . alert. Strong. Warm.
A whisper, in her mind. Sophia.
The jinniyeh was nearby. Sophia felt along the connection between them, that thin line of fire, and oriented herself like a compass-needle, turning in place until she was facing the window. She reached out, pulled back the curtain.
On the other side of the window, the jinniyeh floated: a veil of flame, constantly moving, ever-changing.
Sophia put a hand to the pane. Dima, she said. She could see herself through the jinniyeh’s eyes, like a second sight laid atop her own: a human face behind glass, faintly glimmering with new light.
They gazed at each other for long moments.
I ought to come in there, the jinniyeh said, and tear myself out of you.
For a moment Sophia was afraid that she might—but then she shook her head. You’d still have my knowledge. My words, my memories. You can’t unlearn what you’ve learned.
Stop gloating! the jinniyeh cried.
I’m not, Dima. I’m only saying what’s true.
A hitch in the air, like a sob. You’ve destroyed my life.
I’m sorry. I truly am. But you did this to yourself.
The jinniyeh sagged in the air. She turned, looking west to the river, only a block distant. Then I will end it myself.
Sophia said, Dima—
But already the jinniyeh had flown away.
* * *
The kind-eyed woman had brought supper to the Amherst.
Kreindel watched as she unpacked the crates and set their contents upon the worktable: loaves of flatbread, squares of baked meat mixed with grain and spices, a salad of crisp lettuces and cucumbers, a pot of coffee with cardamom. Kreindel recognized none of it, but it all smelled astonishingly good. Toby seemed to know the woman; he introduced his mother, and they shook hands. Then the woman’s husband joined Toby at the forge, and the two women began to portion out the food onto plates the woman had brought.
Kreindel, meanwhile, sat in her chair in the shadows, not knowing what to do. Beside her, Mister Ahmad looked just as confused.
The kind-eyed woman approached, carrying two plates. “Would you like something to eat?” she said in accented English.
“Yes, thank you,” Kreindel said.
The woman handed her a plate. “I’m Maryam,” she said. “And that’s my husband, Sayeed.” She gestured to the man helping Toby at the forge.
“I’m Kreindel. It’s nice to meet you.” The words felt foreign on her tongue. How long had it been since she’d met so many new people at once?
Maryam smiled, and then turned to Mister Ahmad, a polite question on her face.
He looked unsure, uncomfortable; he put up a hand. “No, thank you,” he said. Maryam nodded, unperturbed, and took the plate to Toby instead.
Kreindel murmured the proper blessings and then examined the flatbread. It was raised along its edges and dimpled in the middle, with a golden tinge to the crust. She tore off a corner, bit into it. The bread was still warm from the oven, and the crust yielded to a fragrant middle that tasted richly of yeast and salt. It was, quite possibly, the most delicious thing that Kreindel had ever eaten. Tears sprang to her eyes again, for no reason that she could see. She wiped them on her sleeve, ate more of the bread.
Mister Ahmad was watching her sidelong, his expression one of regret. Without a word, she tore a piece from her flatbread and handed it to him. He took a bite, chewed with interest.
“Is it as good as Miss Levy’s bread?” she asked.
She’d thought it an innocent question—but he stopped chewing, then looked down at the bread in his hand. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never tried it.”
“You didn’t?” That was strange, wasn’t it? He’d said she’d been a baker for years . . .
“No,” he said. “I didn’t. And she was known for her challah. But I never tried—” His mouth tightened. Suddenly he stood and walked away, behind the column and out of sight.
Nearby, Toby paused in wolfing down his plate of food and gave Kreindel a quizzical look, then cocked his head in the direction the man had gone. She shook her head, quickly. Better, she thought, to let the man alone. And indeed Mister Ahmad returned only a few minutes later, carrying a bucket of coal. He said nothing, only poured the coal into the newly cleaned forge and went back for more. Toby finished eating, and joined in. So did Toby’s mother, and Sayeed—and soon the forge was filled. Then Mister Ahmad fetched a long-handled rake from a peg upon the wall and began to spread out the pieces to his liking. Intrigued, Kreindel set aside her plate and went to join the others, watching as he arranged the coal with quick strokes. Then he put down the rake and gazed around a moment, searching for something. “Kreindel,” he said, “would you bring me that bowl?”
He pointed to a large, cheerful bowl painted with lemons that sat upon the worktable beside her. Inside the bowl was a handful of broken wooden slats, from a crate of some kind. She carried the bowl to him, and watched as he arranged the wood in a small pyramid atop the coals.
He looked up, then, and Kreindel followed his gaze. Toby and Anna and the Faddouls had gathered around the forge too, all standing a few feet back from its edge—cautious, expectant, not quite certain of what was about to happen. It felt like a held breath, the pause before a blessing.
Mister Ahmad put a hand to the kindling.
At once the wood began to crackle. He held his hand there a
