Chapter 2
If you have irises of unmatched color,
hurry to your mother.
If your hair is light like the sun,
You'd best know how to run.
If your palms have lines that cross or your tongue splits down the middle,
If one eye wanders thither or your skin by spots is riddled,
The hunters will detect you by the signs,
They'll spill your blood, hidden treasure to find,
They'll snatch you when you least expect.
Your poor parents will never see you again.
They'll bleed you to conjure spirit guides.
Oh, hizoura children, you must hide.
Pray you get home safe,
Pray they leave you be,
Pray your death is quick,
And then you will be free.
—a schoolyard rhyme
This is Shay's favorite time of day, right before sunset, when she slips through the back of the apartment she shares with Ghita and into the narrow alley behind it. Fading light makes ripples on the blue-textured walls, giving the illusion of being submerged below the Cerabbi Sea's cool waters.
The strays hear her coming before she's fully closed the door.
Shay lifts a finger to her lips in a vain attempt to deter the shuffle of paw steps, the litany of meows as cats of all shapes and sizes leak out from under bushes, within shadowed nooks, and behind pails of garbage, spilling over one another in a bid to be the first to rub against her legs.
“Salaams, Mishmish, Beesoo, Louloua.” She crouches to greet a tomcat with a faded orange coat, a tabby missing half an ear, and a white female with a crooked tail, distributing an abundance of pats, strokes, and ear scritches among them.
A gray cat with a small white crescent marking his forehead, whom she hadn't caught sight of in a moon quarter, head bonks her for attention.
“Oh, Qamar! Good to see you're back, kbida! You had me worried.”
Qamar paws the straw tote looped around her elbow.
Shay withdraws a thin cloth tied in a bundle and stuffed with a mix of fish bones, chicken skins, and crusts of khobz gone stale.
Ghita would be appalled to see Shay “wasting” these leftovers instead of saving them for broth or sausage.
She'd further maintain that the cats are better left to fend for themselves, saying Shay is doing more harm than good by conditioning them to rely on humans, abandon their hunter instincts, and become vulnerable to people with inclinations less tender than hers.
Shay tells herself—because there's no arguing with Ghita—that the affection she gives the strays has value. It enhances their well-being rather than makes them weak. In her core, she believes being loved feeds the hunger of the soul. And every creature has a soul.
So, each night after cleaning up from dinner, she waits for Ghita to settle into her corner chair with a book in hand—typically a collection of mystic poetry or scholarly essays—lest anyone accuse her of indulging in something as unproductive as a nap.
She won't awaken until Shay goes back in and brews a pot of tea, and then she will uphold the pretense that she was reading all along, an accomplishment for anyone with their eyes firmly closed.
“The offerings are slim tonight,” Shay whispers. Delayed by the birth, she missed stopping at the nearest sandwich shop, the one whose kindhearted owner often sets aside a medley of meat bits and trimmings.
As she portions out the scant treats along with more snuggles, she's sure to include those who linger back.
Like Lawz, a brown cat with a limp; Sukkar, an older cat who's timid and sweet; and Mushaakes, a small but energetic kitten who relentlessly wiggles to the front of the crowd only to be buffeted to the rear.
Fluffy Ghaymah, black Layl, grumpy Absii—Shay has named them all.
She relaxes, soothed by the gentle rumble of purrs, the warm nap of fur between her fingers.
By God's blessing, the leavings stretch, her bag running empty long after she imagined it would.
She lowers herself to the cobblestones and leans against the wall.
Mushaakes spares no time springing into her lap.
“Aww, I love you, too. I wish I could take you to sleep in my cozy pallet with me, zine diali, but Ghita would never allow it.”
It would also wreak havoc on my allergies, she doesn't say. Already she feels the familiar prickle in her nasal passages, moisture pooling in her eyes. Yet, ironically, being around animals is one of the few things that eases her discomfort in the throes of a flare.
A rainbow of fabrics flap from laundry lines strung across balconies overhead, turning Shay's thoughts to the servants from this morning, their gossip. The messenger, who she supposes was less than deserving of her rebuke.
Would you want it to be?
Her heart pangs. Despite the threat of being discovered as a hizoura—a person who inherited magical tendencies from an addicted mother—Shay can't help wishing her mother were alive. She sighs.
The fact is, Ghita took pity on Shay when she was as desolate as this lot of strays.
The midwife gave her a home and an honest trade.
A purpose. She offered protection, both from those who fear magic and those who would exploit it.
The least Shay can do is complete her apprenticeship and make sure Ghita's investment was worthwhile.
No idle chatter is going to stand in her way.
With a low snick, the apartment door swings open, catching Shay off guard.
Ghita fills its frame, if not in height, then in presence.
She's unquestionably awake, the soft shadows of dusk failing to smooth the hard set of her face.
The felines clear out, fleeing to their respective crannies well before Shay blunders to her feet.
They seem to sense Ghita's disapproval like a charge in the air, as clearly as the sound of thunder, the scent of danger.
Shay scrambles for a reasonable excuse, still upset with herself for forgetting the apple grass.
Meanwhile, the midwife's judicious eye has already clocked the tufts of multicolored hair clinging to Shay's skirt, the tang of meat hanging over the alley, and—perhaps the most incriminating evidence—the guilt Shay suspects maps her face as clearly as a guiding star.
“I came to call you to open your birthday present,” the midwife says, the last words Shay expects to hear.
Current situation aside, birthdays are not something Ghita is given to acknowledging, much less celebrating.
She raises a shrewd eyebrow. “Though it seems I missed my invitation to your private party.”
Stunned silent, Shay watches the midwife's lips twitch into a playful smile. Even then, it takes a moment for the joke to register. She sputters a delayed laugh, or something laugh adjacent—as close as she dares in case she has misread Ghita's undertone.
Ghita turns, and Shay follows her inside, where a pot of tea is already set to brew over a hot tray lined with coal.
Their small dining room has been dressed for two with dainty glasses trimmed in silver, the decorative ceramic plates normally reserved for guests, and a broad platter laden with dates and figs and an array of Shay's favorite cookies.
There's triangular briouat pastries stuffed with almond paste, chebakia—thin dough-strips fried in flower shapes and sprinkled with sesame seeds, and ghriba—short cakes flavored with orange blossom and drizzled in warm honey.
Shay hastens to gather mint and sugar from the pantry when Ghita sidesteps her. “Go and sit, Lalla Shay. Please, just relax.”
Relax. Shay turns the word over in her mind. She can't get a grip on how foreign it sounds uttered from the lips of someone with a severe intolerance to inactivity.
Dazed, she obeys, sitting on a chair and watching as Ghita grabs a second pot to aerate the tea.
The midwife lifts the first pot high, silver twinkling from the dimples of its surface, and pours the beverage from one pot to the other.
She repeats the process back and forth and back and forth between two glasses.
Finally, Ghita hands Shay a glass of amber tea topped with delicate froth and recites the first portion of the old saying: “The first glass is bitter like life.”
Shay sips. The sharp flavor and the heat in her throat cut through her sense of confusion. Ghita continues preparing the tea, adding ample mint leaves and an alarming amount of sugar cubes. Meanwhile, Shay can't decide whether she's touched or suspicious.
Ghita has always provided for her needs, and Shay is grateful to enjoy a comfortable life.
Not everyone in Nezjar is so lucky. No more than a few blocks from their apartment building lies a shantytown, a makeshift string of shelters hobbled together with metal slabs and loose bed linens, inhabited by displaced citizens no longer able to afford Al-Mukhtar's ever-steepening taxes.
Clothing, food, and education are things Shay has never lacked, but this—whatever this is—she stopped dreaming of back when her only toys were the pinecones she collected on foraging trips and her only entertainment, the games she invented for herself.
Ghita has never been unkind, but neither has the midwife been disposed to unnecessary kindness.
Shay understood early on that what most families call affection, the midwife would classify as spoiling.
By the time Ghita sits across from her, Shay has drained her first glass of tea.
“The second glass is strong, like love,” Shay recites the second part of the saying as Ghita refills her glass, pouring the elixir from such a height that the steaming cascade forms an even thicker layer of foam.
She can't say with any confidence that Ghita loves her.
Their bond may not go deeper than that of a teacher and her student, but it provides Shay the security of knowing her place in the world.
And in a realm on the brink of rebellion, being someone's apprentice is of greater value than being someone's beloved daughter.
Or so Shay tells herself.