“Another push,” the midwife commanded, her hands pressing on Laila’s abdomen. Moments later, a head appeared, then shoulders, expertly guided by Um Salih. It was over. A tiny baby girl, wet and slippery, with a thatch of black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes.

Just like Mama’s, Amira thought, caught up in the wonder of this new life, forgetting for just an instant the circumstances, wishing her mother could see the child. But that could not happen. The secret was too dangerous. Outside of this room, no one but Malik would ever know whose child this was. Um Salih cupped her hand over the baby’s mouth to keep her from crying, then handed her to Amira. As she’d been instructed to do, Amira slipped a ball of cotton into the tiny mouth, praying this precaution would cause no harm. She wrapped the infant in a blanket and placed her in Laila’s arms.

Laila held her child, fingers tracing the features of her face—the forehead, the tiny nose, the cleft chin, and delicate ears—as if to imprint the image of the baby she would never know. It was only a moment; it was all there could be.

At a signal from Um Salih, Amira gently took the baby back. She removed a small bundle from the midwife’s basket, and put the newborn in its place.

Quickly and skillfully, Um Salih delivered the afterbirth and cleaned the young mother.

“Save her, Amira. No matter what happens, you must save her.” Laila’s eyes were feverishly bright, her voice almost inaudible.

“I will,” Amira promised. “I will.” She held her friend in her arms, knowing that it would be for the last time. “Good-bye, Laila. Good-bye. God be with you.”

“Good-bye, Amira. Don’t forget.” “I’ll never forget you.”

Closing her eyes, Laila sank back on the straw, exhausted.

Um Salih unwrapped the bundle from her basket. It contained an infant, its skin purple-blue, dead since late that morning. Among the poor of wealthy al-Remal, death often followed closely on birth. For Um Salih, it was not difficult to find this lifeless baby boy. It had been born to her niece, and it took only a few small coins and a little persuasion to buy its body. The old woman wet the tiny corpse with water, then smeared it with blood from the afterbirth. Placing the baby beside Laila, she covered it with a white linen square. “Guard!” she called. Footsteps were heard approaching from far down the corridor. “My work is finished,” Um Salih told him. “The child is dead. Allah took him early.” She drew away the handkerchief.

The guard looked for only a moment. “Just as well,” he said, not unkindly.

Um Salih signaled Amira brusquely. “Bring my things, worthless.” “Yes, Aunt.”