Chapter 23 · Chapter 23

The silence in the courtyard settled thick and cool after the heavy oak door fell into place. I did not linger near the perimeter of the courtyard, where the lantern light might cast an outline against the upper lime-washed walls for a watcher on the hill of San Cristóbal to see. Moving by memory through the arched loggia, I kept my hand along the cool stone until I reached the descent behind the kitchen store.

The steps were narrow, cut directly into the hillside upon which the Albaicín was founded.

Beneath the floorboards of Abu Jaafar’s house lay the dry subterranean chambers where casks of olive oil and dried figs had once been stacked in better seasons, and where, behind false masonry, the remnants of my grandfather’s library lay wrapped in oiled hides. Here, the air smelled of cold limestone, dried thyme, and damp earth.

No lantern gleamed from a wall sconce; I struck a single small taper inside a pierced tin box, allowing only thin needles of amber light to guide my fingers.

On the low cypress trestle, I laid out clean linen strips boiled with rosemary, horn spoons, and jars of crushed yarrow blended with wax and pine