The house of Al-Zahra had always smelled of lemon oil and beeswax, a scent of order and preservation. But today, to Layla, it smelled of dust and decay.
She found her father in the liwan, the arched sitting room open to the courtyard. He was sitting on the edge of the divan, his prayer beads clicking rhythmically in his hand—click, click, click—like the dry snapping of twigs. He was not praying. He was counting.
"Father?" Layla asked from the doorway.
Ibrahim looked up. His face was gray, the skin beneath his eyes sagging with the weight of sleepless nights. He looked at her, then looked away, fixing his gaze on the intricate geometric patterns of the floor tiles.
"Come, my daughter," he said, his voice brittle. "Sit."
Layla sat on the cushion opposite him, tucking her legs beneath her dress. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. She knew. The air in the room was too heavy for it to be anything else.
"The Pasha sent a messenger this morning," Ibrahim began, his fingers still working the beads. "He was... gracious. He has agreed to overlook the interest on the loans for this year."
"That is good news," Layla said, though the words tasted like ash.
"There is a condition," Ibrahim said. He finally stopped the beads. He squeezed them so hard his knuckles turned white. "He wishes for the union to be blessed before the heat of summer returns. The wedding is set for the first bloom of the almond trees."
Spring.
Layla felt the blood drain from her face. Spring was only two months away.
"Father," she whispered, her voice trembling. "He is three times my age. He has buried three wives. They say the last one threw herself from the parapet."
"Gossip," Ibrahim snapped, though there was no conviction in his tone. "Idle chatter of the market. He is the Governor, Layla. He is the law. To refuse him is not just to refuse a suitor; it is to invite ruin. He would seize the house. He would throw us into the street. Where would you go? To the workhouse? To beg at the mosque?"
"I would rather beg than be sold," Layla said, a flash of her spirit cutting through the fear.
Ibrahim stood up abruptly, knocking over a small brass table. "Do you think this is easy for me?" he shouted, his voice cracking. Tears welled in his eyes, hot and angry. "Do you think I wish to give my only child to a man with cold eyes? I have no choice! The world has eaten me, Layla. Do not let it eat you too. In his palace, you will be safe. You will be fed. You will live."
"I will breathe," Layla said, standing up to face him, tears streaming down her face behind her veil. "But I will not live."
She turned and ran. She ignored his calls, running up the stone stairs, her breath coming in sharp, painful gasps. She burst into her room and slammed the bolt home.
She leaned against the door, sliding down until she hit the cold floor. She pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block out the sound of her father's weeping echoing from the courtyard below.
Spring. The season of life. It would be her winter.
She crawled to the chest at the foot of her bed. She pulled out the leather-bound book Khalid had given her. She opened it to a random page, desperate for air.
"The heart is a traveler that seeks a home in a land with no map."
Khalid.
The thought of him was a sharp pain and a balm all at once. He was the wind. He was the open horizon. If she stayed, she would die in a palace of marble. If she went to him...
She might die in the desert, but at least she would die free.
She scrambled to her feet. She needed paper. Ink.
She wrote quickly, her hand shaking so badly the ink blotted. She did not dare write his name. She did not dare write hers. The note had to be innocent to a stranger's eyes, but clear to his.
The cage opens at the first bloom. The bird must fly before the petals fall. Meet me where the stone weeps.
She folded the paper into a tiny square.
"Amira!" she called softly through the door.
A moment later, the heavy shuffle of feet approached. Amira, the old housekeeper who had raised Layla since her mother passed, whispered through the wood. "Ya habibti? He is still downstairs. He is broken."
Layla opened the door a crack. She grabbed Amira's wrinkled hand and pressed the paper into it along with a gold bangle—her mother's.
"Amira, I need you to do something dangerous," Layla whispered. "You must go to the Bedouin camp outside the walls. Look for the tent with the blue banner. Find the man who looks like he is searching for something he lost."
Amira looked at the paper, then at the gold, then at Layla's tear-stained face. She pushed the gold back.
"Keep your jewelry, child. You will need it." Amira tucked the paper into her bosom. "I was young once. I remember what it is to drown on dry land."
"Go now," Layla urged. "Before the gates close."
Amira nodded and shuffled away, a shadow moving through the house of shadows.
Layla went to the window. She looked toward the North, toward the camp. The sun was setting, painting the sky in the colors of a bruise.
"Wait for me," she whispered to the wind. "Do not let the dust bury us yet."