Chapter 20 · Chapter 20

Dawn had not yet grayed the narrow slit of the shutter when Saad rose from the wool pallet. He moved without haste, his bare feet making no sound against the glazed tiles, pulling on his coarse linen tunic and tying the cord at his waist. There was no fire in the brazier, only the pale chill of the Albaicín in early winter coming through the plaster walls.

—Come down with the lamp, he said softly, turning by the door. Not the copper one. The clay saucer with the wick trimmed down.

I wrapped my heavy wool mantle over my shoulders, knotting the cord beneath my collar, and took up the small earthen dish. We did not speak on the stairs. In this quarter, sound traveled between the limestone courtyards as easily as water through an irrigation channel, and behind every high whitewashed wall there were ears tuned to the scrape of iron or the shifting of wood.

At the foot of the kitchen court, beneath the arched pantry where the sacks of dried chickpeas and jars of green pickling oil were stored, Saad pushed aside the low cedar bench.