“Hang on,” said Ally. In the window display, a fist-size statue caught her eye. She wasn’t sure if it was a woman transforming into a dove, or a dove into a woman. Something in its dust-coated curves reminded her of the statue in Rania Mansour’s garden. She nudged Tom’s side. “Let’s have a quick look.”

Inside, the shop smelled of sandalwood incense. The vendor herded Tom past a display of copper teapots and toward a stand of colorful nargilah pipes.

“Have you tried apple-flavored tobacco, my friend?”

Ally hung back by the entrance and leafed through a stack of postcards. Some were almost as old as her mother’s, with photos of women in bell-bottoms posing by the ruins of Babylon. Others were hand-painted with desert oases or turbaned men riding camels through ocher dunes.

She drifted to the window display and plucked the small dove from the shelf. It was surprisingly heavy in her palm, cast in bronze. She turned it upside down. The Arabic numerals for 1996 were carved into its base, alongside a pair of looping initials. Ally’s breath snagged in her throat. Her eyes widened. She’d seen those initials before—on the back of her mother’s photo by the Tigris.

She stared at the statue in disbelief. Could the sculptor be the link she’d been looking for? A true connection to her mother’s past?

“You like this little statue?” The souvenir seller noticed her interest. He swooped to her side. “A very nice piece, indeed. You can use it as a paperweight, or maybe a bookend. Or display it on your mantel.”

Ally’s heart hammered in her chest.

“Where did you get this?”

“It came from a local artist.” He smiled broadly. “I can give you a very good price.”

Ally peeked at Tom from the corner of her eye. He was inspecting a case of watches stamped with Saddam Hussein’s portrait.

“What’s the artist’s name?” She tried to act nonchalant. “Do you know her?”

“Oh, yes.” The souvenir seller nodded vigorously, sensing a sale. “Miriam Pachachi is a very fine sculptor.”

Tom closed the display case. “Found something you like?”

“Your wife is very lucky!” cried the souvenir seller. “This week I have discount sale.”

Ally quickly slid the bird-woman back on the shelf. Ten minutes ago, she’d promised Tom she’d stop ferreting about in her mother’s past. But even as that pledge had left her mouth, she’d suspected she wouldn’t keep it. Now she knew it for sure.

“I’ll come back another time,” she told the vendor. She smiled apologetically, then caught Tom’s eye and gestured toward the door. Her heart was still pounding when she stepped onto the sidewalk.

“What’s going on?” Tom dodged a pothole. “Are you okay?”