tongues. Zainab was merely the shadow they cast.
The bait didn’t come with a word, but with a smell: the pungent, earthy smell of the streets brought into the barren house.
—Get up, ‘thing’ —her father’s voice was harsh. He never called her by her name. To name something was to acknowledge its soul.
Zainab stood up, running her fingers along the velvet trim of the armchair. She sensed a presence in the room: the smell of wood smoke, cheap tobacco, and the ozone of an impending storm.
“The mosque has many mouths to feed,” Malik said, his voice laced with cruel relief. “One of them has agreed to take you in. You will marry tomorrow. A beggar. A blind burden for a broken man. Perfect symmetry, wouldn’t you say?”
The silence that followed was visceral. Zainab felt the blood drain from her limbs, leaving her fingers icy cold. She
