But the jinniyeh dawdled behind, lingering to watch the humans disappear northward. Something about the pale woman had piqued her interest: her odd appearance, her tremor, but also the amusement in the sheikh’s voice as he’d answered her hail. As though he, too, thought her strange and out of place.
She turned away from the humans and flew back to rejoin her fellows.
It was nearly evening when the Bedu and their guests arrived at their destination: a village of mud-brick huts, built in two long lines that faced each other across a central alley. Children playing in the alley quickly abandoned their games to cluster around the riders and call out to Sophia, who smiled and returned their greetings. She couldn’t help but notice that the crowd was smaller this year than before. For generations this village had served as a way-station for caravans on the road to Homs, men and animals bedding down between the twin lines of huts—not so elegant as the palatial caravanserai in Damascus and Aleppo, with their marble fountains and potted palms, but nonetheless safe from raiders and the elements. Now, though, the caravans were dwindling, their routes usurped by rail and sea. Families in the village had begun to drift toward Homs, where they might find work in the fields and markets.
The sheikh led the Williamses to his hut—beehive-shaped like all its neighbors, an ancient design that stayed cool in the summer heat—and they sat on the floor around the fire while the sheikh’s wife prepared tea and supper. Their host asked after their travels, and learned that they were on their way to Palmyra for a brief visit before heading north, to spend the summer months among the fairy-chimneys of Cappadocia. Sophia inquired about the local politics—traveling the tribal regions was not unlike wandering across a chessboard, and it paid to stay abreast of the latest maneuvers—and the sheikh told her which of the warlords were lately ascendant, and which had overreached. He also told her of a large, slow-moving group of Westerners who had passed on the road the day before, an exorbitant train of palanquins, pack animals, and armed guards. He’d taken them for British, and kept his own men well away; to demand payment for their passage would only rouse their ire, and perhaps that of Syria’s Ottoman governors. “They’ll be at Palmyra by the time you arrive,” he told Sophia, and watched as her expression soured. He enjoyed the novelty of this strange girl and her wardens—they professed themselves to be her parents, but nothing on earth could convince him of it—though at times he wondered who, exactly, he was entertaining.
He wouldn’t hear of them sleeping in the alley, and directed them instead to a pair of empty huts. The sun had dipped below the hills, and the air was cooling quickly. Lucy built a fire for Sophia, and made certain she had enough blankets, and then joined Patrick in the other hut, leaving the young woman to herself.
Sophia spent some time writing in her journal as the village quieted around them, detailing the day’s journey and the sheikh’s gossip. In her five years of adventuring with the Williamses, she’d seen no evidence to suggest that they read her journals; still, she wrote nothing in them that she wouldn’t want her parents to hear. At last, when she’d judged that the village was asleep, she donned a sheepskin-lined coat, lit her lantern, and left her hut, heading in the direction of the latrine.
A child’s face loomed into her path.
She nearly gasped, though she’d been expecting it. The child beckoned, and Sophia followed him to a hut set slightly apart from the rest. The woman who crouched inside by the fire was in her twenties, barely older than Sophia.
Sophia looked about, but the woman was alone. “Peace be upon you, Umm Firas,” she said, suddenly wary.
“Welcome, Miss Williams,” the woman said, her voice subdued. “I must tell you that Umm Salem is dead.”
Sophia’s heart sank. She bowed her head, swallowing back tears that felt entirely too selfish to show. “I grieve for you,” she said. “When did it happen?”
“In midwinter, from an infection in her lungs. At the end, she tried to teach me many things quickly. But your medicine . . . I apologize. There wasn’t enough time.”
Sophia nodded. She imagined the elderly healer on her sickbed, deciding which portions of her knowledge to pass to her apprentice. Of course she’d choose the most important cures, the ones that strengthened newborns or healed broken bones. Not the powder that she mixed once a year for a stranger.
“I can give you this.” Umm Firas handed Sophia a small packet of waxed parchment. “Take it in the same dose as the other. It won’t be as effective, but it will help.”
“Thank you, Umm Firas.” Sophia took the packet, hoping that her gratitude showed on her face, and not her disappointment.
“Did you sleep well, Sophia?” asked Lucy.
It was morning, and the village was behind them. They’d paid the sheikh in grain and coin for the night’s rest, and made their good-byes while the sun was still low. The elder Williamses had long since dropped the miss when addressing their supposed daughter, though in private they all still spoke with near-formal courtesy, as though to remind themselves of the truth.
“Well enough,” Sophia said lightly, not wishing to lie. She’d tried a dose of the new powder after returning to her tent; as Umm Firas had warned, it was far less effective, and she’d lain awake shivering half the night. How, she wondered, would she manage now? It had taken years of secret inquiries to find Umm Salem, and now she must begin over again. She
