Theirs was the camaraderie of soldiers and of family, of shared secrets and of blood. As brothers, they had stood apart from other men and back to back with each other. The things they had done and the things they had seen were never spoken of, but, like white-hot irons on flesh, they had left their mark.

Akbar Khan turned back to the window and watched his family enjoying the evening. Standing in the middle of the garden was Maria, as radiant and blushing as a bride should be. And there, too, was Jia, so much like him, and so unlike her sister – one golden and the other pale, one gentle and the other sharp. ‘I see both my daughters are here today,’ Akbar Khan said to his brother. He regarded them from afar as the sisters hugged one another.

‘You look beautiful,’ Jia said.

‘I’m in good company, aren’t I?’ laughed Maria, and Jia noted the ease with which her little sister opened herself up to life, her soft brown curls falling around her face, her shoulders loose, her touch light. Maybe this is what she herself would have become if things had been different.

Maria taught at a primary school nearby. That’s where she had met the man she was marrying today. Loved and beloved, Maria changed lives in ways that Jia once hoped she would too. Out of everyone in the family, Maria alone had managed to maintain some kind of relationship with Jia despite the circumstances. It was what sisters did with ease. It was what brothers let slip. It was what made men and women need each other.

Jia adjusted her sister’s jewellery. The string of pearls that ran along her centre parting had twisted, turning the gold pendant that hung from it over. ‘Benyamin is angry with me,’ she said.

‘He’s angry with everyone. Except his girlfriend, Mina,’ said Maria. Several questions sprang to mind but Jia put them aside. She made a mental note to talk to Maria about it after the wedding.

‘You really do look lovely,’ she said, admiring her sister’s outfit. ‘I’m glad you made me come.’ A rogue silk thread was coming away from the pinks and the plums of the brocade of Maria’s wedding dress. It occurred to Jia that family was a little like jamavar: countless delicate threads woven together to make an intricate and somehow robust fabric, but one that frayed quickly if not looked after. She looked around for a pair of scissors, but finding none, she leaned forward and broke the thread with her teeth the way she had seen seamstresses do in Zainab Market.

‘Ben can be an idiot,’ said Maria.

‘I think it might be my fault,’ answered Jia, her voice distant.

Maria waved at her groom. He was watching her from the other side of the garden. He looked in need of rescuing. ‘He can’t quite handle the outfit,’ said Maria.