She had sat on these very steps for what felt like hours after the police had taken Zan and her father away. This was where Sanam Khan had cried salty tears, clutching her son’s jacket against her cheek, unable to speak. It was where Jia had greeted Bazigh Khan later that night. His arrival had been swift and she had crumpled at the sight of him. He smelt like her father, his aftershave and his starched shirts. His arms and fragrance enveloped her, and the dam that been holding back her tears broke.

He rebuked her gently. ‘Child, you are to face stronger trials than this,’ he said. ‘You are a daughter of the Khan. Struggle is our life.’ She had never seen him so gentle as when he wiped her tears. ‘You are the niece of Bazigh Khan, yes?’ he said. ‘And have you not heard the mothers tell their children about me? And you know that Bazigh Khan is beyond the laws of the land and more powerful than all the jinn and bhoot of it put together?’ With these words he’d succeeded in making her smile. Then he turned away, his face darkening. ‘Ya Allah! I will burn the city down if I have to, but I will bring my brother and yours home.’

Several hours later he made good on his promise, or half of it at least. Akbar Khan came home the next morning; Zan Khan did not. The prayers continued, the janamaaz spread in one long row, the family side by side, pressing their foreheads to the ground asking for Zan’s return.

The tears and prayer ended only when the boy walked through the doors of Pukhtun House later that afternoon. The women rushed forward to embrace him but his arms dropped, hanging limply by his side. Unresponsive, he waited for them to stop. Dark circles around his eyes told them he hadn’t slept. They tried to fuss over him, but he was tired, he needed a shower, he wanted the sweetness of home.

He waited quietly in the kitchen as his sister poured tea into two mugs. It had been steeping all day, its flavour deepening with each passing minute, the colour from the leaves darkening the milk. Jia added spoonfuls of sugar, hoping it hadn’t tipped over into bitterness.

Eyes lowered and face dark, Zan was not the boy who had left the house the night before. Akbar Khan embraced him, his arms bear-like, leading him away from the women and into the study.

Jia followed but Akbar Khan stopped her, his body between her and the doorway. Something in his voice told her not to argue. She sat down on the floor outside, waiting patiently until Zan emerged. She looked at him expectantly, but he said nothing and walked to his room.

It was early morning when he knocked on Jia’s door.