Her mind wanders so, thought Amira. It was getting worse and worse. Yet, what was to be done? No one knew. Bahia was sure that her mistress was beset by jinn, and sometimes Amira herself wondered if there weren’t something to the ancient superstitions about these malevolent spirits.

Miss Vanderbeek, as worried as anyone, took a far different tack. There were doctors in Europe who treated illnesses of the mind, which was what this was. One of these specialists should be summoned regardless of the cost. Her explanation of the field of psychology sounded almost as fantastic to Amira as Bahia’s pronouncements about jinn, but anything was better than doing nothing. Just yesterday, Amira had taken the unprecedented step of bringing the suggestion to her father.

At first, Omar had bridled at the idea—or perhaps at his daughter’s presuming to advise him. “I’ve heard of this sort of thing,” he grumbled, drawing himself up. “Doesn’t it seem to you to go against God, who holds all our fates in His hands?” Then he slumped. “I don’t know. I’ve racked my brain and thought of a thousand things, none of them worth a grain of sand. Perhaps there is no harm in trying what you say. I’ll make inquiries.”

O

“Let me brush your hair, Mother,” Amira said now, noticing that Jihan was tugging at the tangled strands.

“What? Yes, that would be nice. Thank you, Najla. I mean Amira.” Amira brushed out the knots, then neatly braided her mother’s hair. “There! Much bet- ter. Do you want the mirror?”

“No. I know you did well. Look.” Jihan opened her hand. “My father gave it to my mother. I don’t know why I’ve never shown it to you.” “Mother! It’s beautiful!”

It was a ring, a sapphire, almost midnight blue, set in gold.

“It’s like the night sky, isn’t it, little princess? Dark and deep. And see, there’s the star. Only one. Do you see?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful.”

“It’s for you. You’d have it anyway, of course.”

“Mother, what are you talking about? It’s yours. You keep it. Many years from now—”

“No. I’m setting the clock forward. It’s for you.”

Once Amira finally accepted the ring, albeit under protest, Jihan became almost cheerful. She bathed, put on fresh clothes, and allowed Amira to do her makeup. “Make me beautiful again,” she said with a little laugh. “You are beautiful, Mother.”

That night, waiting for sleep, Amira had hope for the first time in months that her mother had turned a corner. Still, she wished that Malik were here. She wondered if he had received her letter yet. She pictured him pacing, sleepless with worry, in an apartment in France. Had she been too alarmist? She would write him again tomorrow.

She woke in the night to find Jihan standing by the bed. “Mother? Is something wrong?”