Soon the Amherst was gone, vanished into memory. But now the Troy Investment Company seemed to lose interest in its acquisition. The empty lot was put up for auction and sold to an unremarkable firm, one that had built dozens of properties in lower Manhattan. Before long the corner was home to another square and ordinary factory loft, five stories high, so exactly like its predecessor that a casual observer might have passed it none the wiser.
Only the children mourned the loss. At night, they’d take their hoarded bits of steel and glass from their treasure-boxes, and make all sorts of wishes upon them, and try to convince themselves of a magic that they’d once believed in without question.
* * *
The Jinni sat at a sidewalk café, a cup of coffee untouched on the table before him.
A woman soon arrived, and sat in the chair opposite. He wouldn’t have recognized her, had he not arranged the meeting himself. Instead of dark winter woolens, she wore a summer dress of pale blue cotton; the braided crown was gone, a fashionable bob in its place. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. She asked a waiter for a glass of iced tea, and then sat back, regarding him. “Ahmad.”
“Sophia. You look . . . well.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You see it too?”
He nodded, his eyes traveling over the new and subtle glow about her skin, like a sea creature’s phosphorescence. He realized, with an embarrassed start, that he was staring at her. He looked away.
She removed an envelope from her purse, slid it across the table. He opened it, and read with surprise the amount on the cheque: the price of the Amherst’s steel, melted down and sold for scrap. “That’s more than I expected,” he said.
“How long has it been since you purchased steel?”
“Over three years, I suppose—oh. The war.”
She nodded. “It’s a profitable business. Especially when one is ‘too proud to fight,’ as they say.”
The bitter tone was hard to miss. “You disagree with Wilson?”
“I think,” she said, “that neutrality is easier when one hasn’t lived among the people who are about to be slaughtered.” She sighed. “But, never mind. The money from the sale of the property will arrive soon. Are you sure . . . ?”
He nodded. “Half to the foreign aid services, whichever you recommend. The other half to Chava.” Arbeely, he felt certain, would’ve wanted to help his countrymen with his share of the Amherst’s worth. And as for his own portion, it only seemed fair. Both Charlotte Levy and Ahmad al-Hadid had perished that day; but the Golem’s savings had been in a bank, not a building, and now lay beyond her reach. “Does she still mean to go on with her plan?”
She nodded. “We view the property tomorrow. Officially, she’ll be the caretaker. The name on the title will be Troy Investment.”
“But Troy Investment is Chava,” he said, puzzled. “Funded by you.”
“That’s true. But she’s also an unmarried woman, and therefore can’t own property in her own name.”
He sat back. “Ah. How inconvenient.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
A silence descended. Then, “How is she?” he asked.
Sophia sighed. “She’s frightened, and miserable. She accuses me of stealing a part of her, and then shuts me out when I defend myself. She can only see what’s happened as my gain and her loss. And when I sleep, I dream in words that I can never say when I’m awake.” She looked at him then, a touch of sympathy in her eyes. “It’s a beautiful language, Ahmad. You must miss it terribly.”
He nodded; he felt suddenly, unutterably sad. It’s a beautiful language. I miss it terribly. Why had he never spoken to the Golem in this way? Why had he never told her these plain and simple truths? He put his regrets aside and said only, “Did she reach Casablanca?”
“Yes, last week. She tried to go inland, to jinn territory—but the jinn that she met there . . . They know she’s different. They see something—a glimmer of me, I suppose. It frightens them, and they fly from her. So for now she’s staying nearer to the coast, rather than endure that.”
Her gaze was elsewhere, and he wondered if she was trying to see the jinniyeh. He pictured her: a veil of fire drifting along the desert’s edge, alone save for Sophia’s thoughts.
Her eyes turned to his, a touch of flame in their depths. “What about you? Have you decided where you’re going?”
“No. Not yet. But it has to be soon. I’m legally dead—I shouldn’t even be in Manhattan.”
She chuckled, at that. Then, sobering: “Have you seen Chava yet?”
He shook his head. “I will. Before I leave. For now . . . we decided it was better not to. She’s trying to create something new. I might cause . . . distractions. Complications.” He paused and then said, “Do you think she can truly do what she means to? It’s a noble idea, certainly. It only seems . . . optimistic. Given recent events.”
She nodded. “I know. But she feels she has to try. To be ready, in case Dima changes her mind. And she’ll be looking for others, too. We can’t be the only accidents of fate.”
* * *
The house was in Brooklyn, to the east of Clinton Hill. It was built in the Queen Anne style, and had originally been a financier’s present for his daughter, on the occasion of her marriage. Unimpressed with the size of the lots on offer, he’d purchased two and built the house on the border between them—set back from the street for privacy’s sake, with a drive that curved around the front and led to a large carriage-house at the back.
As Brooklyn grew, and the middle classes began to encroach, the fashionable address had grown less appealing. Her children having grown and gone, the financier’s daughter put the property up