Meters above her, soldiers wandered, some solemnly and others less so, through the warren of hallways. Walls were marked with crimson splatters—the fingerprints of revolution. A general, feeling presidential, slid into a plush Victorian sofa and traced the curves of its lacquered arms. His chest puffed to think that people would soon come to appreciate the sacrifices he’d made tonight for the greater good. He stood and walked across a hand-knotted burgundy carpet, delicate white flowers laced through an elephant’s foot motif. He checked the sole of his left boot, then his right. He needn’t have worried, though. An Afghan carpet, perhaps by design, conceals blood just as well as it conceals spilled tea.

The city, a halo around the palace, waited on an announcement from the president to explain the sight of Sukhoi jets and the sound of gunfire. American diplomats stationed in Kabul, some still fuzzy from cocktails, wondered what bizarre conflict had befallen their peaceful and exotic post. One silver-haired American woman, teetering from the effects of a stubby cigarette she’d purchased off a hippie couple, tried to touch the paper airplanes that soared over her head. She applauded the flash of fireworks, as Americans do.

Never, that little girl in the palace knew with brutal certainty, had any child in history been more alone.

On that night, giants were felled. A dizzying void swallowed all that had once been. But the trembling little girl could not succumb. She would be brave because her father had once told her that the world lived within her. That her bones were made of mountains. That rivers coursed through her veins. That her heartbeat was the sound of a thousand pounding hooves. That her eyes glittered with the light of a starry sky.

I am that girl, and this is my story.

Part I

April 1978

Chapter 1

A string of vehicles pulled into the circular palace driveway, disappearing one by one as their engines and headlights cut off. I watched silhouettes emerge and approach the main entrance of the palace.

“Neelab, they’re here,” I whispered.

“How many cars?”

“Fifteen, maybe. It’s too dark out. Hard to tell.”

“We’re going to have to go soon,” Neelab warned.

Mother must have seen the cars approach too. Her voice echoed from down the hall. The palace buzzed as it did on those special occasions when its grandest rooms filled with the most important guests.

“Sitara! Where are you?”

I could not hide my disappointment. I looked at Neelab, sitting on the floor with her knees drawn to her chest. The lamplight cast a yellow glow on her cheeks.

“It’s a weekend,” I groaned.

“They want all the little children in bed when they open that box downstairs,” Neelab said, repeating what her mother had told her. “You might as well go to her before she finds you.”

But surrender had never been my style.