Amira nodded, still not certain in her own mind that this marriage could be described as romantic. “I had a letter from Malik today. He’ll be home on Thurs- day, for a week. Will you come to visit?”

Laila was silent for a long moment. “I don’t think so,” she said softly, a hint of sadness in her voice. “I don’t think that would be proper … now that I’m betrothed to Mahmoud.”

“Oh.”

“Never mind, little sparrow. There’s so much to be happy about. Tomorrow, I’ll begin choosing clothes. Mahmoud has sent sketches from Paris. And we’re going to Istanbul—for at least four weeks, isn’t that glorious? And after that, I’ll be redecorating Mahmoud’s house. He says I can have carte blanche, no matter what it costs. There’s so much to do, Amira, I don’t know how I’ll find the time …”

O

Malik was as spiritless as Laila was bubbly. One morning, he sat in on Amira’s lessons with Miss Vanderbeek. He complimented them both on Ami- ra’s English and French, but soon grew restless and excused himself. Amira asked to be excused, as well. She found him in the garden, tossing pebbles into the fountain.

“What’s the matter, Brother?” She gathered her courage. “Is it Laila?”

“Laila? What gives you that idea? It’s life, Little Sister. It’s passing me by. I have no control over anything. A war has come and gone while I blinked. I spend most of the year in a different world, then come home to the same old one. It goes on endlessly and nothing changes—not for the good, anyway.”

“It’s all in God’s control, my brother,” she said, feeling the words’ ineffectualness as she spoke them. Malik merely grunted.

“Will you teach me to drive, Brother?”

His eyes snapped angrily towards hers. Then, just as suddenly, his old smile replaced the glare.

“She told you about that, did she? Trust a woman with a secret. Well, why not? Will this afternoon be soon enough?”

“Well, there’s no rush. God willing, I—”

“None of that, Little Sister. She who hesitates is lost. It’s now or never.”

That was how Amira found herself behind the wheel of a Mercedes sedan in the wasteland beyond the new airport, where the road was little more than a track in the desert. She was wearing an old thobe of Malik’s and had covered her hair with a boy’s white ghutra that he hadn’t worn in years.

There were no driver’s licenses in al-Remal, partly because there were so few cars, partly because the few that existed tended to be regarded in the same light as horses. Any boy who had an adult male’s permission could drive, even if he could barely see over the dashboard.