Chapter 22
Be sure to pay back all your debts before your final hour, Or bone-eaters will raid your grave and grind your skeleton to flour!
Do not wear clothing stained in red or paint its shades upon your walls, For bloodsuckers cannot resist the color, and one will surely come to call!
Always pray before you sleep, or a third fate will leave you in screams. The night hags will hunch upon your chest, crushing your breath, And peck away your dreams!
—a song often performed by traveling musicians and in storytelling circles
As night nears, a critical voice awakens in Shay's mind to taunt her, telling her that Khawla said they were friends only to make her feel good.
That the rebel girl isn't really coming back.
That she, like everyone else, will seize the first opportunity to be rid of her.
But the brothers leave for the night, and true to her word, Khawla returns soon after.
Over tea, Shay recounts the dreadful scene the brothers reenacted, taking frequent deep breaths to keep herself afloat.
It hurts to say the words, as if they're extracting little pieces of her as she speaks them, minute chips of bone and clumps of viscera.
And yet, their passage loosens a burden in Shay's chest, allowing her to breathe, the way a mother must feel after expelling the child who has shifted all her organs around to accommodate their growth.
She expects Khawla to hug her again or offer words of consolation, but instead of filling with sympathy or compassion, Khawla's face tightens in resolve.
“So my guess is we'll be heading to the kasbah,” she says decisively, proceeding to drain her tea glass and carry the tray to the kitchen as though the matter is settled.
Shay scrambles after her. “What do you mean?”
Khawla turns to her impatiently, clearly vexed. “Don't you want to rescue your mother?”
Shay nods slowly and gulps. She hasn't even asked Khawla to guide her through the forest yet, but it sounds like she's offering a lot more than that.
And, while Shay can't deny she has no actual plan to speak of and could certainly use the assistance of someone more experienced in covert operations and clandestine activities, she understands that her endeavor is, in all likelihood, a fool's mission.
“I don't know if …” Shay flubs, then restarts. “You don't have to come with me, Khawla. This is my problem to solve.”
“Don't be silly. I'm not letting you go alone.” Khawla narrows her eyes, driving a slash between her eyebrows. “We can go to my parents’ house tonight to gather the supplies we'll need and leave first thing in the morning.”
Shay is still wary of getting involved with the Sisterhood, but she's admittedly curious about where Khawla lives, what her life beyond her arrangement with the bone-eaters is like, and whether Shay could be part of that life.
The fact that Khawla is here at all, that she's insisting on helping Shay, makes her want—so badly—to believe she can.
“And your parents will be agreeable with that?”
“Oh yes,” Khawla says with bright enthusiasm. “They can't wait to meet you.”
They can't wait to meet you implies that Khawla's family knows about her, that Khawla has told them about her.
A warmth flutters in Shay's chest. It's a small, fragile thing that doesn't erase her doubts and apprehension, but it dulls the sharp edges of them.
It doesn't fill the ache of what she's lost either, but it softens the raw sting of that, too.
To travel the streets of Ard Al-Ghul in safety, the girls slip some of the bone-eaters’ unwashed clothing over their own, rolling up the long sleeves and using belts to keep the pants from falling. Shay gags on the rancid smell, but she supposes that's the point.
“Will this really be enough to keep the monsters away from us?” she asks Khawla.
“It will prevent them from being drawn to us,” Khawla clarifies. “But don't worry. It's just an added precaution; I know what route to take and which to avoid to steer clear of trouble.”
Khawla leads her into a place that turns out to be like a shadow version of her medina, deeper than she's ever been—or wanted to be.
They weave past buildings constructed of cobbled bones, whose lawns boast gardens filled with spike-rimmed flowers, eyeballs blinking from their engorged centers.
Plants with hinged lobes snap open and shut, revealing barbed teeth and forked tongues.
Bare thujas twist like dancers, thick webs billowing from their branches like tattered grave sheets.
Behind each glowing window and from every darkened alley, hosts of hungry eyes peer out.
Giant rats the size of dogs scurry in and out of gutters.
Shay hears what sounds for all the world like the cries of a baby from deep within the throat of a long drainage pipe.
Khawla hurries her along, whispering assuredly that it isn't what she thinks.
On a street lined with businesses, strange, discordant music seeps through heavily-curtained window fronts.
After making their way around an ornate marble fountain in the center square, flowing red with what Shay can only presume is blood, they make quick turns down a few alleys painted a color that glows muddy green in the pale of night.
The door Khawla finally stops in front of is the only blue one in a row of black. A yaz is carved into the wood, the same symbol from Khawla's marked trees. A circular hatch in the door snaps open, just big enough to accommodate the human eye that appears.
The knob jiggles. The door is flung open by an older woman with supple skin and crafty eyes. She tucks a lock of dark hair beneath her loose scarf and grins at them. “Labas, bnaati?”
Khawla has the kind of family Shay has always wished she had.
Every corner of their home exudes warmth.
It's filled with plush cushions, silky drapes, and cozy wool rugs, all wrought in an earthy palette ranging from terra-cotta rust to golden saffron.
Every aspect of their manner is affectionate and kind.
The meal, a large clay tagine heaped with savory fish and vegetables, is placed in the middle of the table for everyone to share.
Shay tastes their love for one another in every delicious bite.
After they pray together, Khawla shows Shay her quarters while her mother makes up an extra sleeping pallet.
The contents of the room attest to a creative spark Shay has only briefly glimpsed in Khawla before now.
Wall-mounted shelves and every inch of her dresser tops are filled with paints in every color and stacked papers of varying textures and lengths.
Vases hold bouquets of pencils and brushes, all arranged so that their storage seems to be a work of art itself.
Khawla's sketches, no longer hidden in notebooks, are proudly displayed on the walls in testimony to her talent. But the paintings—the paintings are truly stunning. Hilly landscapes rendered in warm coppers and olive fields bursting with green.
Khawla exhibits unexpected shyness as she points out the newest addition. “I made this one last night.”
Shay smiles, admiring the portrait of the cave ceiling from the forest shortcut, glittering with kindle worms. Their incandescence is captured so vividly, the paint seems to glow.
It feels like her friend is sharing small pieces of her heart, tiny glimpses of her inner world.
And when Khawla smiles back and stands a little taller, Shay feels that warm flutter grow stronger, like grasping tendrils spreading and taking root.
“Are you sure it's acceptable for me to spend the night?” Shay asks Khawla later, as they settle onto their respective pallets.
“Of course.” Khawla drowsily finishes braiding her hair before letting her head drop to the pillow. “Thank you so much for indulging them. I know my mother can be a bit much.”
“What do you mean?” Shay asks. “Your mother seems perfect.” She hates how jealous she sounds. How jealous she feels.
“Yeah, that's the thing.” Khawla smiles wistfully. “Things don't have to be perfect all the time, you know? But she tries really hard to make them that way. I sometimes wish she'd relax a little. I suppose she's overcompensating.”
Shay was taught not to be nosy, but something in Khawla's voice makes her think she wants Shay to ask for elaboration. “Overcompensating for what?”
“I never told you this,” Khawla says, and her voice sounds …
not exactly softer, though smaller isn't the right word either.
More vulnerable, Shay thinks. “But my mother was addicted to Snow for a short time. I was too young to remember much about it. I just know it was a difficult period, and my father almost left her. Then they joined the Sisterhood, and the sense of purpose that gave them was just the push she needed to get purged.”
Shay likes that Khawla is opening up to her. That seems to be the sort of thing friends do. But at the same time, she's at a loss over how to respond. Is she supposed to say anything? Or does Khawla only want her to listen?
“The threat of relapse never completely goes away,” Khawla continues. “But I'm grateful for my mother every day.”
“I'm glad she got better,” Shay finally says, her thoughts turning again to Hind. She hates how easily her grief over losing Ghita has been supplanted by worry for Hind, but after everything, she can't bear the thought of her ending up on a blood-wagon.
“Yours will too,” Khawla says, her eyes shining, soft with sleepiness.
“And if women's magic is one day restored, what will happen to the bloodsuckers?” Shay asks, seeking reassurance that the blood-wagons will cease to exist—that things could actually be different, be better.