“Be reasonable. You cannot blame the book,” Rostam had argued. “Men are the kings and advisers, the warriors and the explorers. They make decisions and execute plans and make history. The books are a record of that. Last week, I picked the 1842 defeat of the British, remember? Both of you had to play the parts of men or you would have had no roles at all.”

It was one of our best performances because we did not simply revisit the Afghans driving the British and the sepoys out of the country. We re-created the tea parties and Shakespearean plays performed by British officers and their wives just before the fighting began. We used every word of English we’d learned from our tutors.

“Sitara will explain to you now,” Neelab said as she adjusted the imaginary top hat on her head and waddled parallel to a row of shrubs. She was channeling the stodgy, bespectacled British emissary with aspirations to colonize Afghanistan.

“Rostam,” I’d said, with the impatience of an overworked teacher, “a British poet warned soldiers they were better off dead than facing the wrath of Afghan women. If you think women are not creatures of action, you’ve got pumpkin seeds for brains.”

Rostam did not apologize, nor did he become indignant. But I know that he heard me, because he never excluded women from history again.

“You can return to the library tomorrow,” my mother offered. “But this is an important night, and I need your help. Faheem’s been terrified of sleeping alone lately. You don’t want him to wake up and find himself alone, do you?”

“It’s not fair. I always have to look after him,” I protested.

“Better not complain. I’d rather look after sweet Faheem than have Rostam looking after me,” Neelab said with a shrug.

Now that Rostam was thirteen years old, he didn’t want to be seen playing with girls. That suited my mother just fine, since soon people would read much more into our time together, ignoring the fact that we’d been playmates all our lives.

Even Neelab would suggest that she and I could become real sisters if I could just stomach marrying her brother. I hated when she made those comments, but more because I had started to look at Rostam a little differently. He didn’t carry himself like a child anymore. I missed his company and wondered if that meant I liked him more than I should. Though I shared every little thought with Neelab, I kept this one to myself.

“Girls, girls,” Madar admonished.

I released the curtain from its tasseled tieback and, sighing loudly enough for her to hear, slid the Arabic book back into its place between other Dari, English, and Cyrillic titles. I understood just how awful it was to be gripped by fears, even irrational ones. My fear of the dark drew me to the twinkle of stars.