Chapter 22 · Chapter 22

The hours of daylight drained between our fingers in silent labor. We tamped the garden loam above the flagstones until the smell of fresh-turned earth was masked beneath trampled mint and crushed rosemary. By late afternoon, the bailiffs’ hooves had clattered past the outer lane without halting, their iron shoes ringing against the stones before the sound dissolved toward the lower gate of Elvira.

When the dusk finally settled over the eaves of the Albaicín, turning the whitewashed walls to ash and indigo, I returned to the inner room to finish the parcels. There were dried poultices of yarrow and ground willow bark, three phials of poppy extract wrapped in thick wool to prevent shattering, and the thin strips of clean linen boiled in salt.

Beside the satchel lay two folded sheets of rag paper, their lines traced in walnut ink and sealed with untrimmed beeswax. Saad stood near the narrow window, watching the shadowed curve of the alley below before pulling the heavy wooden shutters shut.

He came to the cedar chest where I worked. His fingers, calloused from the bookbinder’s press and the courtyard chores, were steady as he checked the wax on each ciphered message.