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Conchita’s shoulders rose and fell with her sobs as she stirred the wax.

Aisha went to her side and stared at the wall in front of them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” She put her arm around Conchita’s shoulder.

Conchita shrugged her off, turned to face her, and glared. Her eyes were wet with tears. “You can’t be happy for me, can you?”

Aisha lowered her head and picked at the surface. “I am, Conchita, I promise. I’m sorry.”

Conchita ladled the wax into twelve small round candle moulds. Her movements were sharp and her hand trembled, spilling the wax across the table. She cursed Aisha.

Aisha took the ladle from her and put it down. She held her in her arms and kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, Conchita. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Conchita pulled away. “You always hurt us, Aisha.”

Aisha swallowed hard against the urge to retaliate. It wasn’t her sister’s fault that Aisha lived a hollow shell of an existence, that she wanted to be with a woman not a man, and because of that, she was imprisoned by rules that were slowly strangling the life out of her.

“Why are you always so indifferent? You barely talk to us anymore.”

“I work hard for us all,” Aisha said.

“You work hard, and you’re not here. Your head is always somewhere else, somewhere better. You are one of us, but you are not with us.”

Aisha’s heart thundered, and her throat ached with anger and disappointment. If it wasn’t for the money Aisha earned dancing, they would live in virtual poverty like many others. “You have no idea what goes on in my head or my life.”

“Because you don’t let anyone in, Aisha. How can we know? How can we help you to be happy?”

The thrust of Conchita’s argument threw Aisha backwards a pace. Her little sister wasn’t a child anymore. She was a young woman who could see Aisha’s struggle for happiness and wanted to help. But how could Aisha trust her sister? Even if Conchita took her secret well, which she didn’t think she would, it would put Conchita in a difficult situation within the community. She would have to lie to their mama and papa and to her future husband. She would become a silent part of the closeted life Aisha lived, and that would make Conchita unhappy in the end, as it had Aisha. “You can’t help me. No one can. This is something I have to sort out on my own.”

Conchita wiped her cheeks. Aisha picked up the ladle and continued to make the candles. Conchita left the room.

Mama entered the house and lifted the basket of vegetables onto the table. “Where is your sister?” she asked.

“Taking a rest.” Aisha stared at the pot.

“Good. I need to speak with you.”

Aisha’s stomach dropped. She stirred slowly, deliberately, to control the tremor developing in her fingers and give the quaver in her voice that would be sure to show if she spoke too soon the time to still. “What about, Mama?”

“You were at Matías’s workshop on Tuesday.”

There was never any doubt that her mama would find out about the visit, and she was glad she hadn’t lied about that. Nothing was sacred in the village. Aisha bent closer to the moulds and tried to give the wax her full concentration, but it was impossible with her stomach churning and knowing what was coming next. She went back to stirring the pot with her back to her mama. “Yes.”

“Who was the woman you were with?”

“A friend.”

“No one recognised her. She’s not from the village.”

“No.” Aisha turned from the stove. She had to be strong and stand her ground without coming across as defensive or guilty. She had nothing to feel ashamed of, and no one was going to stop her seeing Gabi again. She was a friend, and Aisha wanted to get to know her. It had been a long time since she’d felt this happy, and she wasn’t ready to give it up, even though she knew she probably should. She was drawn to Gabi in the way she’d been drawn to Esme, and that was a fact she absolutely needed to keep from Mama. She gulped down her breaths and stood taller, clasping the ladle tightly in her hand. Wax dripped onto the floor. Mama looked as if a bee had flown up her nose.

“Is she from Granada?”

“No.”

Mama twitched her nose. “Spanish?”

“Yes.”

Her expression softened as if she was about to smile. She didn’t. “Where in Spain?”