Chapter 17 · Chapter 17

The lamp had burned down to a low tongue of flame by the time I rose from the wall.

I did not ask whether the corridor had emptied. The outer bar had come down, the steward's steps had gone, and the wing held only the two of us, the smell of old cedar, and the cold flat breath of a room that had been shut for a season.

I put my hand to the pin beneath my chin and drew it out. The shaila came away in one length of black and I folded it once, twice, and set it on the arm of the chair nearest the door, where the cloth would not take the dust. The abaya I unbuttoned from the collar down, slowly, because there was no hurry left in the night, and stepped out of it, and hung it where it belonged, on the hook the house had put there for it.

Underneath I was still dressed. I want that said plainly. A long dress the color of weak tea, sleeves to the wrist, and my hair pinned close to my head.