Leaving the prison, praying that the baby would be able to breathe but would not cry, Amira wanted to run. But Um Salih moved slowly, the picture of an old woman whose hard task was completed and who had no need to hurry. Of course, as long as they did nothing to attract attention, no guard would want to look in the basket: unclean things in it, female things. Amira matched the midwife’s pace, and the gate clanged shut behind them.

2. Sorrow

Sorrow

The hour’s walk to Um Salih’s village felt like a march of a thousand miles. Night had fallen, and the air was cold. Amira had never been so tired in her life. As if to make up for the enforced silence of her first moments of life, Laila’s baby began to cry lustily as soon as the cotton was removed from her mouth.

Amira wanted to stop, to hold the infant and rest awhile, but Um Salih insisted they move on. “She needs mother’s milk. Someone is waiting to give it.” “We can’t just let the baby cry,” Amira persisted. “Surely you can do something to make her feel better.”

Perhaps remembering that Amira was the daughter of Omar Badir, Um Salih relented. Wetting a cloth, she dabbed it with sugar and offered it to the infant to suck. The sweetness—or perhaps simply the touch of a human hand— seemed to soothe and comfort the child. A few minutes later, she was back in her basket, fast asleep.

Just outside the village, a silver Porsche shimmered in the moonlight. As the women approached, Malik stepped from beside it. Usually fastidious—Amira often teased him for being vain—he was unshaven and unkempt. His creamy white thobe, woven of the finest Egyptian cotton, looked as if he’d slept in it. He embraced Amira, held her close for a long moment.

“I was so worried,” he said without preamble. “I was afraid you’d been found out. I thought they’d taken you … I didn’t know what to think. I never would have forgiven myself if anything happened to you. But you’re here now. How is Laila? And the baby, what of the baby? Tell me quickly, for God’s sake!”

Ignoring the question about Laila—for how could she be in such circum- stances?—Um Salih lifted the cover of her basket. “A healthy baby girl, sir. She’ll be a great beauty, I promise you.”

Malik reached for his daughter, touching her face as her mother had. “I’ll call her Laila,” he said, more to himself than to the two women. “I’ll do every- thing for her. Everything and more. Everything I would have done—should have done—for Laila.”

“Don’t think of it now, Brother,” said Amira. “There’s nothing you could have done.” It was true.

O