Where was it, the marker her brother had left? Perhaps someone had picked it up … perhaps the sand had covered it over during the night. Frantically, she searched, pacing forward and back. There, at last, the oxblood-colored stone Malik had described, a solitary jewel against a bed of sand.

Amira dropped to her knees, her lips moving in silent prayer. Surrounded by silence and stillness, Amira knew she was not alone. She felt her mother’s love, sensed her mother’s heart reaching out to her, from beyond the grave.

She looked to the sky—for so strong a feeling there should be a sign, a fire in the heavens. But there was only the blinding sun. She whispered good-bye, drew her veil, and began the long walk home.

11. Alone

Alone

“Wake up, laziness, wake up. Are you a queen in a palace that you sleep until noon?”

Amira rubbed her eyes and stretched, glancing at her bedside clock. “But Auntie Najla, it’s only half past eight, and I was up very late studying for my examination …”

“Only half past eight? Only? Allah, Amira, a good wife could prepare food for an army before nine o’clock—and see to her husband and children, as well. Examination indeed! When I suggested to your father that some education would make you a better wife, I didn’t expect you to neglect the really important elements of a woman’s life. Or do you think, my high-and-mighty miss, that the diploma you crave will make you better than the good wives of al-Remal? More important than the other women of this house?”

Amira bit back a sharp retort. No, she didn’t think she was better than the other women of the house. But she was different; she felt that every day of her life—and never more so than since Jihan had died. The books she devoured, the home study courses she took, the secret yearnings she harbored, all these set her apart. Yet, what was the point of trying to explain herself ? Anything she said would be taken as disrespect and reported to her father. All in the name of teaching her to be a good and modest woman, of course.

“Well, then,” Najla went on, apparently appeased by Amira’s silence, “hurry up and get dressed. Your father mentioned he would enjoy a good saleeq—yes, that’s what he specified—and if we don’t hurry, Allah only knows what will be left in the market.”

Only half listening, Amira pulled out of bed, slipping a cotton robe over her nightgown as she moved towards the bathroom. She didn’t feel comfortable showing herself to either Aunt Najla or Aunt Shams. Maybe it was because they were so shapeless and—in spite of their preoccupation with other people’s sexuality—sexless.