Chapter 6
The rest of the afternoon saw Aicha on one of her least favourite tasks: deliveries.
Stuck with a heavy saddle on her back, deliveries were intended to provide Fouad’s wealthier customers a “prestigious service,” and her spine ached from carting their weapons across the citadel.
As she approached the short, thick wall that bordered the northern settler neighbourhood, Aicha opened up her saddle to reveal its contents.
Among the settlers, there were two neighbourhoods—three if you accounted for the soldiers’ barracks.
The last two were not protected with any fences or walls, and belonged to the traders and merchants that sailed over.
The neighbourhood Aicha was visiting was where only the affluent settler families resided.
Wives and children of high-ranking officers.
Wealthier business owners. Their arrivals, according to Aicha’s baba, had been the most recent.
Only within the last three decades. A low-level, stone wall protected the small neighbourhood.
Manned by two soldiers, who were now both rifling through her bag as she revealed the weapons—indented with her baba’s insignia, a star—before providing the names of the customers she would be visiting.
“Easy,” she bit out, as they became heavy handed with their rifling. Shoving at her shoulders, rage licked up her spine as their hands became a little too familiar with the curves of her body, seeking out any hidden weaponry.
Aicha had made sure to leave her dagger behind this time.
Her chest heated with fury, and Aicha closed her eyes, remembering the instructions Rachid had taught her as the voice inside urged her to draw blood: “Count down from ten, habiba.”
Cut out their tongues!
Ten, nine…
Rip their eyes out!
eight, seven…
Cut their fingers off! Never let them touch you again!
six, five…
I will show you how!
four, three…
Let me show you!
two, one.
Aicha’s chest loosened by the time they were satisfied.
She was shoved forward, and a snicker erupted between both men as Aicha forced her gaze ahead.
Their laughter followed her through the gates, echoing in her head and haunting her steps.
Aicha’s teeth ground together, because as mouthy as she tended to become, even she knew to stamp down on her temper when approaching the border.
It was a space regarded as integral to the safety of the invaders’ wealthier civilians; to start trouble was to endanger them and their homes.
An attack on their lives. Anything they did to Aicha would simply be self-defence.
If she had so much as raised a hand, there would have been no questions asked following a knife swiping across her throat.
Shaking off the lingering shame that curdled in her stomach, Aicha continued on down the streets.
Taking in the luxurious architecture of their homes and the metal bars that caged their windows, she wondered which Maghrebis had been there centuries before, where their grandchildren were now.
If they had been forced out of the citadel or into the southern district, like her own ancestors.
If they had had to watch another family move into their home and throw out their belongings.
Baba had passed down stories of her ancestors having endured just that, carrying what they had been allowed to pack in their hands as they were shoved into the southern district like cattle.
The stone in the invaders’ neighbourhoods appeared softer, and its beige tones quieter than the loud deep brown of her own home.
It was calmer in this sector, eerily so.
Compared to the last time Aicha had delivered goods, a mere two weeks ago.
There was no music fluttering from open windows, no children running in the streets.
So the rumours were true, then. They were fleeing the citadel, like ants abandoning a collapsing ant hill.
It was almost comical.
When Aicha had made her delivery—to a customer who looked slightly disgusted by the dirt and oil that had coated her cheeks—she took pleasure in grazing her hand against the stone walls that arched over the front door.
A small, childish act of defiance that she knew would fray the customer’s nerves.
The surrounding streets were all similar, steps leading up to the homes void of any dirt or sand, swept regularly and contained in a silence that created the impression no one lived there. Aicha found that depressing.
“Hello, Aicha.” The voice startled her, and she pivoted to the pathway she had come from to find the robed figure was Ilham, Naima’s surrogate mother. The Gardens had been her creation, a sanctuary she had carved out for herself and the few young women who were gifted like her.
“Lala Ilham, I did not expect to find you here.” Aicha’s voice was unsteady, for a reason she was unsure of.
Ilham was a woman Aicha had always known, but could not recall how, the memory was cloaked in smoke.
As if something kept it just beyond her reach, and every time her hand extended towards it—like a child seeking a toy—it was snatched away.
The nervousness Lala Ilham elicited was the same that plagued her waking moments, just after thinking she had imagined seeing something she shouldn’t have.
A small voice, cautious and fearful—and often drowned out by something darker—spoke up, begging her to not ignore the convenience of it.
To admit that it was, in fact, anything but a coincidence.
But every time she considered it, her father’s words echoed in her eardrums. To invite it was to invite jinn. To admit that something dark, nefarious and magical circled her waking and sleeping moments could mean that her death would be met with the hand of shaytan.
It unsettled her deeply, despite the woman’s kindness.
“A house call. My customer does not like to be seen at the Gardens; her husband is devout.” She laughed softly, and Aicha always found the sound enchanting. Soft, melodic, a soothing lullaby that could rock you to sleep.
Lala Ilham was beautiful. Her large, gold earrings shook as she chuckled.
Her dark brown skin was smooth, compared by her daughters to the glimmer of the sun.
Aicha envied the elegant, intricate braid she pulled her hair into, paired with the jewellery she constantly wore.
Her robes were always clean, rich in colour and vibrant, never faded from washes.
The deep emerald of her fabrics complemented her skin and gold earrings.
Though she was only visiting a customer—for what Aicha assumed was a private reading or spell—her attire indicated that she was attending a party.
She could pass for regal. When Lala Ilham spoke, it was with an edge of authority.
Her tall stature could be imposing to those who did not know her, but then shift to a maternal power, soft but forceful.
Like it did in that moment, while Aicha offered a smile in the silence.
“I trust your father is well?”
Aicha took the offer of conversation, nodding before clearing her throat. “Busy, as always, with the forge. He has me running across the citadel delivering to his customers.”
A chuckle escaped Ilham at the clear distaste in Aicha’s voice, and the two shared a genuine smile together.
“I won’t keep you, then,” she said, and Aicha only then noticed the kohl surrounding Ilham’s eyes, forcing her to focus on the prominence of her deep brown iris, several shades clashing together. Like medjool, she thought.
A surge of sadness bloomed in her chest, one where she briefly wondered how you would even apply kohl to your eyes. And how it would have been something she could have asked her mama, if she had been alive.
That flash of darkness appeared behind Ilham, and Aicha couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath as her gaze followed the smoky dark figure up to where the shape of its head was. Hovering behind Ilham like a protective shadow.
Another blink, and it was gone. As if it hadn’t been there in the first place.
“You best be off,” Ilham continued, placing a hand on Aicha’s shoulder. The gesture was both comforting and grounding, as if she knew Aicha needed to be grounded. As if she knew exactly where her thoughts had strayed and what she had just seen. “And get home safely.”
She gave Aicha a look, one that made her remember why she occasionally felt unsettled around her.
It was a look of knowing and anticipation, as if there were something about Aicha she knew awaited its revelation.
The look a shawafa had when they glimpsed into your life and found something that would disintegrate your entire world.
As if she knew Aicha better than she knew herself, and it scared her.
“Thank you, Lala Ilham,” she said softly. Ilham smiled as Aicha began to move past her, turning slightly to face her.
“Please give Fouad my well wishes; it has been too long since we spoke.”
Aicha only replied with a soft nod, confusion rising. Because Baba had always claimed he never spoke to Lala Ilham.
The sun had begun to set by the time she had returned home from her last trip, dropping off the farming sickle a merchant had ordered.
She only just reached him in time—due to depart on a ship that evening.
She found him sneering, cheeks puffed in fury.
When he had placed the bag of coins in her palm, Aicha had made a point of squeezing his hand hard enough to hear his knuckles pop.
She left the docks in a better mood. Perhaps it was unfair to him, but the day’s frustrations and lingering anger from how the two soldiers had manhandled her body earlier in the day meant that Aicha’s patience had frayed.
It felt good to expel it in some way, even if it was just a merchant with an annoying attitude.