Chapter 4
Aicha had been in this room before, though her memory of it was hazy, blurred by years of newer experiences.
The woven fabrics that covered the sidari were intricate, grand and vibrant in colour.
Aicha remembered feeling it beneath her palm and realising it was not meant for slumber—the stitching was too fine, bumpy with diamond and square patterns.
It was a sidari for appearances, to impress guests.
These were Ilham’s working quarters—reserved for her richest guests, who demanded luxury during their readings, private and forbidden to any of her girls.
Naima had only shown Aicha the rooms once, and they had gushed over the beauty of the kaftans and takshetas.
But the place held neither warmth nor wonder in that moment.
The room was dark, the candles blown out and shadows lurked in the corners, pressing in around her.
She was not supposed to be there. As she turned to leave, cold hands gripped her neck, yanking her back and holding Aicha in place.
Her fingers clawed at the wrists, but she was pushed to the floor, darkness cloaking the figure above.
She was close enough to see that her captor’s eyes were onyx; deep pits that seemed simultaneously vast and on the cusp of explosion.
They were eyes Aicha had seen many times.
Her breath came in small increments, as if the creature was intentionally limiting her air supply.
Its grip loosened a fraction, but only enough for Aicha’s gaze to focus, and fixate on the siyala between its brows and chin, identical to her own.
It bled into the skin, as if the ink had never dried.
When Aicha blinked, she noticed the long nose and high cheekbones.
Her heart stuttered. The fear that thrummed beneath her skin suddenly felt colder than the hands wrapped around her throat.
It tightened around her lungs and her vision blurred once more. Aicha was looking at herself.
The pallor of the creature’s skin made it look unwell, as if it had been hidden from the sun all its life, and the eyes were black as a sky without stars.
It evoked a deep melancholic emptiness, as if this abyss was all they knew.
Digging her nails into the wrists, Aicha fought against the creature with more vigour, as if pulling herself out of its grasp would free her of the similarities they shared.
Instead, it began to tear into her skin, sharp fingers digging into Aicha’s flesh, and released an ear-splitting scream.
The sound erupted violently out of Aicha’s double, as if painful to release, as if the creature was in agony.
Aicha tasted her own blood as her throat was ripped open, preventing her from screaming.
The creature’s screech was of suffering that begged for an end.
Yet they still dug into her throat, until Aicha’s skin was coated in her own blood, and she could only watch.
The creature moved upwards and dug its fingers into Aicha’s mouth, prying her jaw open with brute force.
Aicha tried to release a scream of agony, garbled by the blood she was choking on.
She heard the snap of her own jaw, and then—
“Up, shanewla, now.”
Aicha shot awake, hands flying to her mouth and throat to check they were still intact.
As her mind restored itself into her bedroom, she lay there and stared at the ceiling.
Her breath was heavy and laboured, fear still gripping her skin.
It had felt so real. She had barely slept when Fouad woke her for fajr, having hardly rested her head on the covers after returning from her chores with Samira.
It felt like months ago, rather than mere hours.
And despite her baba’s incessant shaking, she had continued to lie there.
Frozen. It had been months since a dream like that had disturbed her slumber; the creature had not visited her for some time.
She had let herself bury it deep, enough to almost forget.
It had never been so terrifying before, though.
She had always brushed it off as an old fear from her childhood.
But Aicha had never seen it so clearly, had never noticed the symmetry of their faces.
She closed her eyes, hoping for the memory to fade into darkness, like all dreams did, and repeating the words she had spoken to herself many times before. It was just a bad dream.
“Nodi! You’ve slept too long,” Baba pressed, the softness in his tone missing. With a scowl, Aicha rose, waving him away. Samira was up, annoyingly better at rousing herself from sleep.
Aicha’s sleepy glare and sour expression wouldn’t cease until she performed wudu.
The water she splashed on her face would dissolve any remaining exhaustion, the coolness of it on her skin as effective as a dip in freezing sea water.
The room was cloaked in darkness, for lighting a candle before daybreak would indicate to patrols that they were awake during the time of fajr. It was a dangerous position, and so they worked in darkness.
“You are on first watch,” Samira muttered, unnecessarily.
Aicha was always on first watch, and the last to pray; a consequence of being the last to wake.
They took turns keeping watch as the other prayed—a practice outlawed by the King when his men had planted their flag and erected churches.
The citadel slumbered peacefully as Aicha kept watch, a rare, quiet moment of tranquillity that disappeared once dawn broke.
When it was finally her turn, the family’s movements around her became quiet and soft.
Facing the south-east direction, her bare feet stepped onto the rough prayer mat.
Aicha’s fingertips found her temples, briefly remaining there before she began her fajr prayer.
“Allāhu akbar.” Her voice was low, barely above a whisper, as she dropped her hands to place them on her stomach, right hand over left.
“A’auodu billaahi minash-shaytanir rajeem, bis-millaahir rahmaanir raheem. ”
Fouad dressed in his own room, while Samira sat just beneath the window, chin resting against the stone sill to stare at the narrow streets below, lulled into comfort by Aicha’s soft recitation of Surat-al-Fatiha.
Aicha knew Samira’s eyes were alert, following any shadows that might be moving in dark corners in the streets ahead.
Their part of the citadel was compact, the buildings pushed together—Maghrebis resided in the southern sector.
Their buildings had existed long before their invaders had arrived.
But once they had, they expanded, burning what they considered unnecessary and building what they found more important. Followed by the walls.
When she had finished praying fajr, thankful that it was the shortest of the five, Aicha hurriedly dressed in her leather armour. She hated wearing leathers. It was uncomfortable, and stuck to her skin once she started sweating.
Disgusting.
The sun would rise soon, and so would the rest of the citadel.
Fouad preferred to escape the walls before that, in order to avoid anyone that could cross their path.
Aicha didn’t think he fancied the idea of being caught on the way to train his daughters for a revolt.
It was a routine they had kept all her life.
Wake up before dawn, pray fajr, and discreetly make their way beyond the walls using routes that her baba’s family had dug with their own bare hands.
Aicha tied back her hair and pulled up her hood, bringing her scarf to the bridge of her nose, allowing only her eyes to be shown.
It dipped, ever so slightly, and before she even had a chance to step into their hall, Fouad halted her.
“It’s not tight enough,” he mumbled, though not with irritation. “If we are forced to run, it will slip down and reveal your face. I have told you this since you were three and ten.”
She waited patiently as he briefly pulled her hood down, circling her to tie a stronger knot at the back of her head, until it snagged on stray curls and had her hissing softly.
“I know, Fouad.”
His response was a sharp and sudden sting at the back of her neck.
“Ow!”
“Do not talk back,” he snipped, delivering another blistering slap before stepping away. “And you call me Baba! I am not one of your friends.”
She bit back her response, which was that whenever he desired information about her life or Samira’s, he always conveniently claimed that she could talk to him like a friend.
But it was not worth reminding him of his own contradictions so early in the morning.
Aicha’s desire to swear out loud was only exacerbated by Samira’s snort of amusement as she passed her.
Aicha wondered whether she’d still find it so funny if she slapped Samira’s nape.
The two of them were indistinguishable once Aicha pulled her hood back up. Their clothing allowed them to move easily through the compact streets under the shadow of the darkness. Anyone who saw them would be unable to decipher whether they were male or female.
Aicha’s fingers pressed into the hilt of the blade at her belt, her nerves frayed in a way that she had become familiar with.
Adrenalin surged at the anticipation of escaping the citadel, and at the risk of getting caught.
Simultaneous excitement and fear burned through her like a wildfire as the speed of her steps increased.
She ran behind Fouad and before her sister, a formation that had become automatic.
If they were ever spotted by a patrol—which had happened before—she knew what was required for her. “Scatter.” One word from Fouad, quick and low, and she would sprint away from her family.
They’d always find each other later.