The child was born silent.

Rebekah’s eyes sprang open. Had Jacob’s cruelty killed the fetus? “Is it a boy?”

“A girl, my child.”

“Why isn’t she crying?” Rebekah asked.

“She is smiling.”

The midwife set the infant on Rebekah’s stomach. God was merciful; He had not forsaken her. He had forgiven her nights with Jacob, pardoned her transformation into a whore. He had given her a girl. A daughter. An ally, a friend. She, in return, would prove she had garnered courage from His generosity and would raise her daughter to become a devout Jew. She would watch her day and night until they planned their escape. She must start searching the house for Jacob’s wealth, the gold bullion and coins. She would need money to travel with her daughter to a faraway place, to a world with no evil, no iron, no fire, no boundaries.

She smoothed her daughter’s cheek, touched her lips, inhaled her innocence. A sweet faintness enveloped her, a haze, a welcome exhaustion. This was worth the humiliation of choking on bloody foreskins, worth all the nights she had danced for Jacob, contaminated herself with his odious perfume, and suffocated under his body.

Her daughter would be educated—above all the girls of the Jewish Quarter. She would learn to express her feelings. She would read her the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám and teach her to recite poetry. She would allow her to choose her own man. A man who would smell good to her. On her wedding night, dignitaries and important people of the neighborhood would file past, offering their congratulations and gifts of lacquered rosewood and filigreed jewelry. Her daughter would move into a rust-brick house like the one at the end of an alley, away from the garbage pit, in the most affluent part of the Quarter. She would have her own private bedchamber and a maid to wash the laundry in the joubs.

The echo of Jacob’s steps came from afar.

Rebekah’s dreams vanished.

She had given birth to a daughter, only to thrust her into the evil world of Jacob the Fatherless. Into the horrors she herself could not escape.

Jacob banged on the locked door with his metal-soled boots. He demanded to see his heir. A hard kick sent the latch flying from its hinges.

On twig-like legs that had grown strong from carrying his bulky body, he strode to Rebekah’s pallet. She lay in sheets soaked with sweat and blood, the infant pressed against her bosom.

The room submerged under a cloud of fear, the smell of blood, birth, and iron. Jacob the Fatherless loomed in the center.

He snatched the child and raised her overhead. His crossed eyes quivered as he stared up. “Lord!” he cried to the heavens. “How dare you act against my will!?”

The midwife grabbed the child from him and ran out.

Jacob’s ashen face turned to the kiln. He pulled on the metal mesh glove. He lifted the poker from its hook and jabbed it into the hearth, goading the flames.