One Tuesday, encouraged by her newfound independence, Zainab took a basket to the edge of the village to pick some greens. She knew the way — forty steps to the large stone, a sharp left turn with the scent of the tannery, then straight on until the air cooled near the stream.
"Look at this," hissed a voice. It was a voice like shattered glass. "The queen of the beggars has gone for a stroll."
Zainab froze. “Amina?” »
Her sister entered her personal space, the scent of expensive rosewater overwhelming and suffocating. "You look pathetic, Zainab. Really. To think you traded a mansion for a mud shack and a man who smells like a gutter."
“I’m happy,” said Zainab, her voice trembling but steady. “He treats me like I’m made of gold. Something our father never understood.”
Aminah laughed, a high-pitched, shrill sound that startled a nearby crow. "Gold? Oh, you poor blind fool. You think he's a beggar because he's poor? You think this is a tragic romance?"
Aminah leaned closer, her warm breath against Zainab's ear. "He's not a beggar, Zainab. He's a penance. He's the man who lost everything in a bet he couldn't win. He's not staying with you out of love. He's staying with you because he's hiding. He's using your blindness as a cloak."
For the complete cooking steps, go to the next page or the Open button (>) and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.The world fell silent. The sounds of birds, water, and wind—all vanished, replaced by a roar in Zainab's ears. She stumbled backward, her walking stick striking a plant, nearly knocking her over.
"He's a liar," Aminah murmured. "Ask him about the 'Great Fire of the East.' Ask him why he can't show his face in the city."
Zainab ran away. She didn't use her cane; she ran by instinct and pain, her feet finding their way back to the cabin out of sheer despair. She sat in the dark for hours, the cold earth seeping into her bones.
