Kreindel closed her eyes, and whispered the Havdalah prayers to herself, for the end of the Sabbath. It wasn’t a proper ceremony; she had no spice-box, no braided candle, no cup of wine. But perhaps tonight, just this once, it didn’t matter.
Yossele, she thought, I know you’re out there. I still love you. And for a moment she could feel cold, dark water all around, and an answering pulse of love and sadness—and then the sensation faded.
In the river, Yossele sat beneath the rusted crane, thinking.
He’d never known—because neither had Kreindel—that there could be people like this in the world. Ordinary people, like Toby and Anna and the Faddouls, who might learn her secrets and still accept her, understand her. Who could protect her when necessary, and hold her when she cried.
His master, it seemed, didn’t have to hide anymore. He, Yossele, was separate from his master—and his master no longer required a golem.
It ought to have angered him. Instead, he only felt relief. He could make this decision for her; he could lift this weight from her shoulders.
He left the shelter of the crane, and began to walk south again, toward his master.
* * *
Night fell along the docklands.
In the pier-sheds, watchmen strolled between the stacked boxes, light spilling from their lanterns. Car-floats bumped up against the docks, their boxcars heavy with cargo. Stevedores whose shifts had ended strolled across West Street to the taverns, or took their week’s pay to the back rooms of terminal houses, where men sat upon wooden crates and dealt out hands of rummy.
The Golem surfaced at the end of a freight pier.
She found a ladder nailed to the pilings and climbed upward, pausing at the top to make certain that she was alone. The pier-shed rose before her, a narrow walkway beside it. A pair of barges was tied to the pier, the river lapping at their hulls.
She pulled herself onto the wooden deck, sat and wiped the water from her face. Where was she? She squinted down the pier, and saw the words Baltimore & Ohio Freight painted in white on the terminal house. She must be at Jay Street, then. Only a few blocks from Carlisle, and the Amherst.
She wrung out her jacket, squeezed handfuls of muck from her skirt. Her boots and stockings were ruined, gashed to ribbons by the river’s jetsam. She took them off and set them beside her, then looked out over the water, wondering where Yossele was. She wished she could’ve held on more tightly . . . She’d have to face Kreindel, and tell her what had happened. She and Toby must have reached the Amherst, by now.
She stood, keeping to the shadows, judging her options. She could go back into the water and walk the rest of the way to Carlisle, counting the piers as she went—but if she overshot she’d end up in the bay, where the currents might be difficult to navigate. Could she risk taking West Street instead? It was nighttime, but the streets weren’t deserted by any means—and she was alone, wet, and bedraggled, not to mention barefoot.
The back of her neck prickled. Something was approaching—a mind, a presence . . .
She turned, and saw a light in the sky.
* * *
The Jinni stood beside the forge, his arms crossed, looking into its depths.
There’d been a brief discussion, verging on argument. Sayeed, they’d decided, would go to the Hotel Earle in the Jinni’s stead, and look for Sophia. When the Jinni had insisted that he was recovered enough to make the trip, they’d reminded him that, according to Kreindel, there were two golems in the river heading toward Little Syria, and it might be best for all involved if he was there when they arrived. It all made very good sense—and yet it left the Jinni stuck in one place, waiting for others, which was exactly what he’d wished to avoid.
It’s my own fault, he thought ruefully. I opened the door, and they came in.
He looked around. Kreindel was dozing in Arbeely’s chair; Toby, sitting beside her on the floor, was likewise asleep, his head against the desk. Maryam was packing away her supper things, with help from Anna. He caught Maryam’s eye; she came over, and he handed her the cream-and-yellow mixing bowl. “Thank you,” he said.
She smiled—as always, it didn’t quite reach her eyes—but then paused at his expression. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not wrong. I only wanted to tell you . . . I’m leaving New York.”
To his surprise, she seemed neither glad nor relieved, only puzzled. “You are? But—where will you go?”
“Back to the desert. I’ve had . . . an offer, I suppose. From one of my kind, another exile. She wants me to come live with her, so that neither of us are alone.”
“Oh. I see.”
His mouth quirked. “Of course, that was before she nearly murdered me. But I don’t think she meant it,” he said to Maryam’s shocked expression, “and I believe her offer still stands. And even if it doesn’t . . . Maryam, I don’t belong here anymore. Maybe I never did. Maybe it was just easier to pretend when Arbeely was still alive.” He glanced over to the desk and chair, and their sleeping occupants. “I think Ahmad al-Hadid died too, that night,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t realize it at the time.”
“If this is what you truly want, then I’m glad for you,” she said. “But what will you do there, in the desert?”
He chuckled. “I have no idea. Perhaps I’ll build the Amherst again, where no one can see it.”
She looked slightly appalled. “But—Ahmad, talents such as yours are meant to be shared.”
“I don’t know what else I can do,” he said. “I can’t just wander the earth like an accursed spirit for the next six centuries. I’m only content when I’m making something new—but who’d ever look at
