“Oh, I see. For weeks I’ve been pestering my husband to take a day off and come to the market with me.” The young woman reached for her husband’s arm, but he was looking at his watch like he had somewhere else to be. “Isn’t that right, Tom?”

“Umm . . .” Her husband glanced about, as if he might find his answer on the shelves. A brief spark of irritation flashed in the young woman’s eyes.

“I’m Ally.” She extended her hand. “And this is my husband, Tom Wilson.”

“Rania Mansour,” she replied.

Once the introductions were done, the young woman’s gaze returned to the groaning shelves.

“The market out there—so many books, so beautiful, in every language you could imagine.” Ally shook her head in wonder. “And these old shops like al-Kitab, tucked away in the arcades. I feel like I’ve slipped down the proverbial rabbit hole. Is Mutanabbi a world heritage site? It should be. I wonder—” Ally broke off and clapped her hands over her mouth. “Sorry, I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

“Not at all.” Rania chuckled. The young woman was a breath of fresh air. “I remember feeling the same way when I visited the Serpentine Galleries in London for the first time. I was a student at the Royal College of Art back then. It must be close to twenty years ago.”

“Twenty years? How can that be?” said Ally. “You don’t look so much older than me, and I’m only twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven? Really?” Rania peered at her from the corner of her eye. She wondered, Was it a childhood free from desert winds that kept Ally looking so young? Or was it that grief had not yet pinched her lips or reddened her eyes? Rania felt a stab of envy. In Iraq, no one neared three decades and remained so untouched.

“What brings you to Baghdad, Ally?”

Before she could answer, Tom leaned forward.

“I’m the deputy ambassador at the Australian embassy.”

“The Australian embassy? Then you might know—” Rania broke off. A decade had passed since she last spoke with Huda. Why on earth was she thinking of her now?

Of course Rania’s mother, the sheikha, kept her apprised of happenings among the tribe. Births, deaths, marriages, and successes like Huda’s appointment as an embassy secretary were all relayed along the scratchy telephone line from Basra. And if she was really honest, Huda had been in and out of her thoughts ever since she began packing up her father’s books for sale.