‘There’s a fair number of young lads here. I don’t mind which one you’re talking about.’ He stood up and walked towards her. ‘Has he caused ye any trouble?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘There are families in the cottages at the other side of the monastery, near the start of the walking trails.’

She turned to go, following the direction he pointed to. Salma had mentioned the walking trails. They were graded in difficulty. Some more challenging and longer than others. They took you up through the woodlands and the scenery was meant to be breathtaking. Hiking was an activity Salma was determined the three of them would do before they left.

Iman walked slowly. This was partly from reluctance and partly a response to Mullin. At school they had studied an ancient poem in which the beloved was praised for, among other assets, swaying like a cow making its way through a muddy pasture. Iman must have imbibed these attributes, wore them like she now wore these costumes. Every man was to be won over for favours or expedience. A few must be snared and conquered. Not in sin but in lawful marriage. A rich husband was the easiest way to make a living. But this hadn’t worked out, had it? And the failure bewildered her. Whenever she remembered Ibrahim, she felt stunned by loss. Her life was on hold, in shambles. What am I going to do with myself?

She should ask the Hoopoe for advice. But he just kept telling stories. One after the other, as if all the answers were inside the narrative, all the guidance embedded in the logic. Besides, she was fairly occupied here, engaged in her surroundings. She did not want to tackle the future. The loch staved off the problem of her homelessness and she was young enough to inhabit the present. The attic room was the best of homes; Salma and Moni her family.