Chapter 39 · Chapter 39

The years did not arrive with the clamor of trumpets; they crept into the Albaicín like the slow frost that hardens the pomegranate rinds before the winter rains. One decree followed another until the ink on the public placards began to peel over older proclamations.

First went our public speech, then the cut of our cloaks, then the bathhouses along the Darro, boarded shut and choked with weeds. The bailiffs walked the cobblestones in pairs now, their boots heavy against the paving stones, listening at cedar gates for the cadence of forbidden prayers or the rustle of turning parchment.

Yet within our walls, the stone remained mute. Saad stood beneath the sturdy cedar lintels of the grandfather's library, his broad shoulders braced against the silence of the house. He possessed the quiet, deliberate step of one who knows that every movement within a courtyard is counted and weighed.

He did not pace the colonnade with the restless fury that had once driven him out of Malaga; he walked it with his hands tucked into his sleeves, his gaze lifting naturally to check the iron bolts of the street door, the latch of the water cistern, and the mortar that sealed