She would heal. She had to. Over and over her hand stole to her ruined chest, where the locket should be. Find someone else to murder you—did he think she wished for death? Oh, he didn’t understand at all! Angrily she shook her head, trying to loosen her eyelids. A strange sensation was rising in her, a discomfort different from pain but just as compelling: an unbearable itch for something she couldn’t name, something that reminded her of hot summer days, of children playing in open fire hydrants, longings for iced lemonade . . .
Thirst. She was thirsty.
She stood from the bed, feeling rickety and unsteady. The hole in her hip puckered uncomfortably as she hitched her way down the darkened stairs to her landlady’s kitchen. She found a water-pitcher and filled it, then took it back to her room and drank glass after glass. Her body absorbed it all, then another pitcherful, and another. The cracks in her skin began to smooth together, the burnt scraps of cotton fluttering to the floor. Her eyelids loosened at last, and she blinked gratefully, over and over.
By morning her face had filled out again, losing its skull-like aspect. She examined the stripes on her arms and her sides, where the Jinni had carried her. Their edges were softening; they, too, would heal. The hole in her hip had closed enough to walk normally again. By tomorrow, with any luck, they wouldn’t notice anything wrong at the bakery—
The bakery. Selma Radzin. She hadn’t even told the Jinni about it.
Her small burst of optimism drained away. She poured another glass of water and drank it down in a single morose gulp, then roused herself to tidy away the boxes and tins he’d spilled onto her desk. She refolded the fabrics and spaced the pins evenly on their cushion, wanting to be angry, to think, How typical of him, to make a mess of things and then leave—but she felt too weary to argue even in her own thoughts. She fetched the basket, to pack everything away—and only then saw the square of muslin, lying on the floor where he’d dropped it.
She picked it up, smoothed it out. On the muslin was the figure of a woman, outlined in cord. Spreading from her back and shoulders were wings of golden flame.
If you were a jinniyeh . . . Was this what he wished for? A woman closer to himself, someone less challenging to comprehend? She folded it away at the bottom of the basket, then put everything else on top, as though to hide it from herself. She would discuss it with him, she decided, when he arrived that night. They would speak about it as rationally as they could. She would try, as always, to make him understand.
But their usual hour came and went, and the Jinni failed to appear beneath her window.
8.
The headmistress of the Asylum for Orphaned Hebrews frowned at the typed report before her.
Kreindel Altschul, eight years old, four feet two inches, 52 pounds. Mother, Malke, died of fever after childbirth. Father, Lev, a rabbi, died in tenement fire. No siblings or other relations. Child describes an isolated and neglectful upbringing. She has received no public education and speaks little to no English, but demonstrates intelligence. Plainly undernourished but otherwise no visible deficiencies.
“She’s too old,” the headmistress said at once. “You know that we draw the line at five.”
The man who sat across from her smiled thinly. “And you know that you may draw that line when a child is surrendered by its parent. But Miss Altschul is now a ward of New York State, and in this instance the state requires that an exception be made. I understand,” he went on as the headmistress drew breath to argue, “that it will take longer for her to adjust. But she has no relatives to foster her, and all the smaller Hebrew institutions are at their limit.”
“We, too, are at our limit,” said the headmistress, frost in her voice. “We’ve long since surpassed it, in fact. And we’ll be of little help to anyone if the state insists on treating us like a warehouse for difficult cases.”
“Why do you assume she’ll be a difficult case? Aside from her age, she seems exactly the sort of child your Asylum was intended to help.”
You know as well as I do what a girl like this would face here, the headmistress wanted to say. But that would be impolitic, a show of weakness, and she stayed silent.
“I’d hoped,” the man went on, “that we might manage this between ourselves. But if you think I ought to invite Dr. Wald to deliver a verdict . . .”
Her eyes narrowed. Dr. Wald was the Asylum’s superintendent, tasked with the oversight of the Asylum’s thousand-plus residents. The children knew him mainly as the man who appeared in the dining hall once a week or so, for impromptu uniform inspections. The rest of his time was spent glad-handing city officials, attending prestigious conferences, and making hopeful forays among New York’s German-Jewish beau monde. Interruptions to his schedule were rarely tolerated.
“I believe we needn’t burden him,” she said, defeat sour in her mouth.
The necessary arrangements were made, and the man took his leave without refreshment, citing the train schedule. The headmistress summoned her secretary. “Make a new file,” she said, “and tell Matron to expect a new resident for quarantine. Kreindel Altschul, eight years old.” She held out the report.
The secretary’s eyes widened. “Eight?” And then, perusing the report: “Oh, dear. A true orphan.”
“Indeed.”
“What name should I put on the file, do you think?”
The headmistress sighed. “Let’s try for Claire. I expect it’ll be a struggle—but hope springs eternal.”
* * *
The Jinni stood on the Amherst roof, rolling a cigarette.
It was the fifth morning since the fire, and still he hadn’t gone to the Golem’s boardinghouse. Let her wonder if she’ll see me tonight, he’d told himself that first night, just as I wondered if I’d ever see her
