She was accustomed to the finest of fabrics; the shoes she wore were made by an Italian boot maker who served only the most prominent of families. But today, she was supposed to be someone else, not the daughter of Omar Badir, one of al-Remal’s wealthiest men, but the niece of the village midwife.

Amira had played at masquerades before, gone into the souk wearing boy’s clothes—white thobe, white ghutra, with sunglasses for added disguise. Dressed like that, she’d even driven her father’s car—the first time, with the help of her older brother, Malik. Malik did it for the sheer pleasure of breaking the rules; Amira did it to enjoy, if only for a few minutes, the freedom even the poorest male in al-Remal took for granted.

But this masquerade was no game. Life and death were the stakes here and, even more importantly, her family’s honor. If Amira were to be discovered, she knew that even her father’s wealth wouldn’t protect her from the consequences—consequences she shuddered to imagine.

“Stop dragging your feet, laziness,” snapped Um Salih. “There’s nothing to be afraid of here.”

The impertinence thought Amira—then remembered she was supposed to be a poor girl assisting the midwife. Lowering her eyes, she murmured an apology.

The guard, a heavy man with a wheeze, coughed out a laugh. “Nothing to be afraid of in al-Masagin, Mother? Don’t you fear being flogged as a liar?”

“If all liars are to be flogged,” Um Salih replied, “who will do the flogging?” The guard laughed again.

How could they talk and joke in this place? Amira wondered. As a young child, she’d tried to imagine what the prison might be like, but not even a nightmare could have prepared her for the cold, the dankness, and worst of all, the stench: sweat, blood, vomit, urine, shit. The smell of utter despair. The smell of impending death.

Ever since her best friend Laila—the daughter of her father’s good friend— had been arrested, Amira had made this trip regularly, disguised as a male servant, bringing food and carrying messages between Laila and Malik. But this deception, this would be the hardest of all. The life of Malik’s unborn child depended on it, and perhaps Malik’s life, as well.

The women’s wing of the prison was quiet except for the crunching of the guard’s heavy boots and the rustle of the two women’s garments. A piercing scream bounced off the rough sandstone walls. Amira flinched, biting her lip to keep from crying out. She wanted to turn and run, to leave this terrible place and never return. But she had made a promise, and she would keep it no matter what.