Chapter 33 · Chapter 33

The morning fever broke by the third rising of the sun, leaving Shimon’s skin cool and hollowed over the high ridges of his cheekbones. He did not lie upon the mats to nurse the lingering ache of the sickness. When he stood, his hand was steady against the rough lime of the inner wall, his grey-streaked hair tied back with a clean cord of unbleached wool.

He did not speak of the seer or the herdsman who had slunk back into the shadows of the ravine. In the quiet courtyard beneath the dry eaves, he washed his face with cold water from the clay basin, took three dried dates from the wooden bowl on the low bench, and broke his fast without haste.

"Bring the boy," he said to me, wiping the moisture from his beard with the edge of his sleeve.

I stepped into the side chamber where Ibrahim sat upon the palm mat, paring the reed pens he had whittled the evening before.