And as he’d examined his unspoken language, forgotten sayings had begun to surface, the proverbs of elders, childhood taunts. Angrier than a ghul’s mother. Stop stealing my whirlwind. Give them a storm-cloud’s welcome. With each one came the thought: I must tell this one to Chava. But translation was no simple matter. The words themselves were many-layered, contingent on the season, on the time of day, on any of a host of circumstances. He imagined stumbling over the explanations, going back to add some crucial detail he’d forgotten, as he tried to show her how each phrase was a small tale in itself. He would never succeed to his satisfaction; he would only sadden and frustrate them both. And even if he could find the words, then what would be laid before her? A dictionary of lusts and caprices, avarice and recklessness; a vocabulary made for wandering where one pleased, and taking what one wanted. A language suited to the ways of the jinn—which were everything that she abhorred.
He lived a different life now. He followed rules and conventions, as far as he deemed himself reasonably able. He guarded his speech, and checked his desires, and tried, at all times, to remember that his actions had consequences. He was Ahmad al-Hadid, born by accident in a Manhattan tinshop, neither jinni nor human but a thing half between. That was who she walked with. That was who she’d promised herself to.
Grimly he pushed himself forward on the blades. One snagged on the ice; he wobbled, overcorrected, and toppled backward, landing on his shoulder. He stood back up, ignoring the Golem’s stifled groan behind him. He was doing it all wrong; he was trying to propel himself forward like a sledge—but the blade needed resistance. If he pushed one foot sideways, against the ice . . .
He glided forward, an arm’s length.
From the shoreline came a note of surprise, small but edifying. He pushed with the other foot, and then again, moving outward from the shore, curving slightly to the right; he leaned left, found his balance, and swerved to an upright halt. He looked around, pleased with himself, then took off again: one foot and then the other, finding a rhythm, building speed, the wind whistling past him as he curved out toward the center of the pond . . .
“Be careful!” the Golem called. “It’s thinnest in the middle!”
Irritated, he shouted back, “Stop fretting, Chava, I know enough to hide from the rain!”—and then drifted to a stop as, for the second time that day, his words echoed around him.
Silence, from the shore.
He began again, gliding away with long strides, wanting to curse himself. He’d gone rummaging through his mind as though it were an abandoned cupboard, stirring up memories instead of leaving well enough alone. He slalomed about, turning curlicues, feeling trapped, dreading the return to shore. What you said before, she would ask, about hiding from the rain—what did that mean? The metaphor was obvious, it meant she was treating him like a child; she only wanted to hear him say it so that she could ask another question, and another. She’d pry him gently open and it’d be his own fault, he’d just handed her the lever—
A distant voice called his name.
He looked up. The Golem was a small, dark figure silhouetted against the Ladies’ Cottage. The frozen pond stretched between them. He’d skated clear to the other side.
“Ahmad,” she called again, her voice thin and odd-sounding. “I’m going to freeze.”
He skated back as quickly as he could. She stood immobile at the pond’s edge, hands slowly opening and closing as she tried to keep her fingers limber. Her face sparkled with frost.
He yanked off the skates and tossed them into the snow. “There’s a stove in the cottage, I’ll break the lock—”
“No,” she said firmly, through clenched teeth. “Let’s just walk back, please.”
Slowly, like a moving statue, she turned and started toward the path. He kept to her side, placed her stiff hand on his arm and covered it with his own, as though they were a courting couple. She threw him a half-annoyed glance, but kept her hand where he’d left it; and by the time they reached Washington Square, her face no longer collected stray flakes of frost. But his own guilt hadn’t yet ebbed. He couldn’t help picturing Sophia Winston the last time he’d seen her: pale and subdued, trembling beneath her layers of shawls. She’d never explained, never blamed him. Not in words.
“Shall I take you home?” he asked at Grand Street, thinking she’d want to be rid of him for the night.
“No,” she said, surprising him. “Your apartment, please.”
And so they continued south, instead of turning east. Neither spoke, though she’d drawn closer to him. Her hand felt softer now, more pliable on his arm. They reached Washington Street, keeping to the sidewalks—it wouldn’t do, yet, to climb ladders and walk makeshift bridges—and soon were at his building. It was three in the morning; the frosted windows were dark, the hallways silent.
He unlocked his apartment, brought her inside, and set about warming her through.
“Ahmad?”
She lay on her side facing him, one arm tucked beneath her pillow. The locket she wore rested on the mattress-top, its long chain pooling beside it. She never took it off, though he wished she would. He’d opened that locket once, had unfolded the paper inside and come within a breath of speaking the words that would destroy her. He disliked touching it, even by accident, but had long since resolved to ignore it. She lived with a trapped wizard’s endless scream in her mind. He could manage a brass locket.
“May I ask you a question?” she said.
“Of course.” He tensed inwardly, waiting.
“When you kissed me in the park, what were you thinking about just then?”
He blinked in surprise. A kiss? He reviewed his memories of the evening. They’d talked of poor, lonely
