The Bird King(15)

“You must be starving,” she whispered to it, carrying it across the courtyard. “You weigh nothing at all.”

The dog only grunted. Warmth and snoring issued from Lady Aisha’s room: Fatima hesitated in the doorway.

“You have to be very quiet,” she said. “Otherwise, I’ll be in a lot of trouble.”

The dog put its chin on her shoulder. Fatima maneuvered awkwardly to her sleeping mat and set it down. She was so tired that she threw herself beside the dog with a thump, and without bothering to change out of Nessma’s dress, though she knew this would be a source of mild hysteria in the morning. She didn’t care: the heat radiating from the dog’s body lulled her heavy limbs into a stupor. She was dreaming before she even shut her eyes.





Chapter 4


She awoke to strong sunlight. Her hair was damp with perspiration, her dress—Nessma’s dress—clinging to her torso like a silk noose. The heat was unbearable and suggested a very late hour of the morning; so late, in fact, that it might well be afternoon. Fatima sat up and ground the heels of her palms against her eyelids. Why hadn’t anyone woken her? Lady Aisha’s divan was awash in rumpled coverlets but otherwise empty. The dog, too, had disappeared.

Fatima struggled to her feet. Her head was pounding; she needed a tincture of willow bark. She peeled Nessma’s dress over her head and draped it across Lady Aisha’s divan to dry. There was a basin of rose-scented washing water and a towel, only slightly damp, on the floor near the foot of the divan; availing herself of these, Fatima washed her face and her hands and underneath her arms and between her legs. She yanked a plain tunic and trousers from the dressing pole and hurriedly pulled them on.

Laughter came from the garden. Shuffling out, shielding her face from the sun with one hand, Fatima saw Luz seated next to Nessma on a pile of cushions, plucking experimentally at a lute. She had forsaken her widow’s gown for Andalusian dress: a light chemise beneath a long tunic like the one Fatima herself was wearing, the same loose trousers gathered at the ankle. She was even barefoot. Nessma was leaning toward her like an old friend, pointing at this lute string and that one, praising Luz’s efforts.

“Just so,” she chirruped. “Give me another two weeks, and you’ll be playing ghazals.”

“You’re an excellent teacher,” said Luz, laughing. “But I’m a very clumsy student.”

Nessma’s ladies tittered politely around her. A short distance away, in a safe patch of shade, Lady Aisha was reclining on a sheepskin with a book, ignoring her guest in a way that suggested there had already been an argument. Fatima padded toward her and lay down, setting her head in her mistress’s lap.

“You got dressed without me,” she yawned.

“I’m not yet incapable,” said Lady Aisha, stroking her hair. “You were so fast asleep that I took pity on you. And I was somewhat alarmed to see that scrofulous canine in my very own bedchamber, as relaxed as if he was lord of the—”

Fatima sat bolt upright and looked Lady Aisha in the eye, pleading silently. She tilted her head toward Luz. Lady Aisha paused, eyes narrowed, and nodded.

“You’ll tell me later,” she said in a quieter voice. Fatima’s back was suddenly cool; a shadow had fallen over it.

“There you are,” said Luz with a smile, standing above her. “I’m freshly amazed to see you in the sunlight. You know, Lady Aisha, I think you’ve managed to acquire the most beautiful girl since Helen laid eyes on Troy. Such cheekbones, such eyes—”

“Her cheekbones and her eyes are regularly praised,” said Lady Aisha, leafing through her book. “If she hears it too often, it’ll go to her head. Praise her good sense, if you must praise anything. It will serve her much better than her cheekbones will.”

“You’re absolutely right.” Luz pulled up a cushion and sat down with a happy sigh. “My abbess would agree with you. She always says that beauty is a test, a temptation to the sin of pride. The nuns cut off all their hair when they take holy orders, and never touch a pot of rouge or white lead ever again. Yet they radiate beauty of another kind. Their faces are always full of light.”

“You didn’t become a nun,” said Fatima, feeling suddenly shy. Her own face was not full of light.

“No,” said Luz, eyes flickering a little. “Only a lay sister. I’m too restless to spend my days in a cloister, though the other vows came easily enough. That’s my great failing. I need to move, to have many tasks and many uses. We are all made for different things—sometimes not the things we want.”

Discomfited, Fatima studied the pattern of tiles on the ground. A small beetle was making its way toward her, its carapace iridescent in the sun. It hesitated when it reached the sole of her foot. Fatima laid her hand flat against her heel and coaxed the beetle onto it, then held it up close to her face. What was she made for? The beetle’s carapace split apart to reveal ash-gray wings: it unfolded these and was gone in a moment, possessing no answers.

“What would you like to do today, Baronesa?” asked Lady Aisha. She clapped her book shut with an air of finality, as if the silence had become onerous. “How do you intend to spend your time with us? You’ll forgive me for being blunt, but I’m still not certain why you’re here. Whatever terms Ferdinand and Isabella have to offer us will surely be discussed by the general and my son, for I’m in no position to negotiate independently.”