Footsteps, in the stairwell—and Arbeely emerged, puffing and smiling, already pulling biscuits from his pockets as the children gathered around him like famished seagulls. Watching, the Jinni realized for the first time that his partner had forgone not only a wife but a family. Guilt panged him anew. He turned away and watched the ships in the river instead.
Soon the biscuits had disappeared, and Arbeely came to where his partner stood. After a moment the man said, “You’ve been scowling more than usual lately. Ought we to talk about it?”
The Jinni raised an eyebrow. “I might say the same of you. Would you like to go first?”
A surprised pause—and then Arbeely chuckled ruefully. “Well. Perhaps it would do both of us good to simply enjoy the sunshine.”
“Perhaps,” the Jinni agreed.
They stood together, gazing out over the bay. Then Arbeely clapped the Jinni on the arm—the Jinni wondered if the man had decided to forgive him—and turned back toward the stairwell. “Coming?”
“In a moment.”
The man descended back to the shop. Alone, the Jinni finished his cigarette, and made his decision.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Levy?”
The Golem glanced up from her work to find one of her hires watching her in confusion. “Yes, of course,” she lied quickly. “Why?”
“It’s just that you’re making the morning bialys, and it’s nearly closing time.”
She looked down, chagrined. Sure enough, there were the bialys, two whole trays of them, each flattened middle awaiting its helping of chopped onion. How could she have made such a mistake?
It’s Ahmad’s fault, she thought spitefully. She’d spent the last four nights trapped in her room, unable to walk away her distractions. He hadn’t even sent a message to ask how she was faring! “I’m just tired, I suppose,” she said, and scraped each of the trays into the trash-bin, wincing at the waste.
This has gone far enough, she thought as she walked home that night, dodging children and pushcarts without seeing them. She’d go to Little Syria before sunset, and demand that he speak with her. She’d even pound on the Amherst door if she had to, neighbors or no—
“Chava,” her landlady called to her on the staircase. “I was about to leave this in your room—it just arrived.” She handed the Golem a small, paper-wrapped parcel, addressed in familiar handwriting.
She took it to her room and tore the paper away to find a hinged box covered in dark pebbled leather, the sort a jeweler might use. Inside it was an oblong locket that hung upon a silver chain. The locket appeared to be made of steel, not brass—but otherwise he’d reproduced it exactly.
She hesitated, then pressed her thumb against the latch. The locket popped open, revealing a square of tightly folded paper.
Quickly she closed it again. Then she put the chain around her neck, tucked the locket inside her shirtwaist, and walked in the evening light to Little Syria.
His door opened before she could knock. She stepped inside; he closed it behind her. She watched his eyes travel over her, taking in her restored appearance. What would he say? You’re looking well, perhaps.
Instead he said quietly, “You have every right to be angry with me.”
Her eyebrows went up in surprise.
“It was wrong of me to stay away,” he said. “But I knew that I would give in, that you would convince me. And I had to convince myself first. I had to change my own mind, or else resent you for changing it. Does that make sense?”
She was still wary, but she nodded. This, she understood.
“So I decided,” he said, “to bow to your authority on the subject. If you must have that thing to feel in control of your life, then by withholding it, I am caging you, as certainly as this”—he held up his wrist—“cages me.” He sighed. “Now, if you still want to shout at me, I promise I’ll stand still for it.”
Do you wish I were a jinniyeh? The question faltered on her lips. He was offering her a way forward, and to ask would only set off an argument that neither of them could win. For once, she would leave it alone.
He was watching her warily, as though she were a stick of dynamite that might explode at any moment. She stepped closer, brought her face to his, and kissed him. For a moment he only stood there, unresponding—she quailed, regretting the impulse—but then his arms came around her, and he was kissing her back, his lips searing hers.
“Did you open it?” he asked, later.
The lamps were turned low; she lay with her head cradled on his shoulder. “I did,” she said. “But only the locket. Not the paper.”
She fell silent, and he knew what she was thinking. She wanted some confirmation, some promise, that he had in fact written what she’d asked—that she wouldn’t unfold the paper someday, in a desperate moment, to find only an apology, or nothing at all. He could feel her struggle not to ask, to show her trust through silence. It wasn’t a struggle she often won.
But the silence stretched, and gradually became a more ordinary moment of quiet between them. Surprised, he let go of the tension he’d been holding. One hand brushed along her hip; his fingers found a small divot where the metal spar had pierced her. He winced, and moved his hand away. “Does that hurt?”
“No, it’s only a little numb. Like there’s a piece missing.”
“You’re well, then? Nothing . . . permanent?” Certainly she seemed her usual self. He supposed that if he wanted to, he could pretend that nothing had happened at all.
“Fully healed,” she said. “And no one at Radzin’s noticed anything.”
“That’s good. I’m glad.”
“But—oh, I never told you.” And she related her tale of Selma Radzin, and the young woman’s startling moment of insight. “I’ll have to leave the bakery soon,” she said. “Or else they’ll all start to notice, not just
