Laila opened her mouth, thought better of it. She reminded herself that Mariam was the only innocent party in this arrangement.
Mariam and the baby. Later, in bed, Laila burst into tears.
What was the matter? Rasheed wanted to know, lifting her chin. Was she ill? Was it the baby, was something wrong with the baby?
No? Was Mariam mistreating her? “That's it, isn't it?” “No.”
“Wallah o billah, I'll go down and teach her a lesson. Who does she think she is, that harami, treating you—”
“No!” He was getting up already, and she had to grab him by the forearm, pull him back down.
“Don't! No! She's been decent to me. I need a minute, that's all. I'll be fine.”
He sat beside her, stroking her neck, murmuring. His hand slowly crept down to her back, then up again.
He leaned in, flashed his crowded teeth. “Let's see, then,” he purred, “if I can't help you feel better.”
First, the trees—those that hadn't been cut down for firewood—shed their spotty yellow and copper leaves.
Then came the winds, cold and raw, ripping through the city.
They tore off the last of the clinging leaves, and left the trees looking ghostly against the muted brown of the hills.
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