Page 1 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

A woman’s jewels are her life. I can look at any one of my kinswomen and know her life by the jewels she wears, by their metals, stones, colours, symbols, patterns.

I can see her loves and heartbreaks, her children and her family ties.

I see all of her while others might see only trinkets bought in the hot jostling souks.

I sit alone on the tiled floor and look over all my jewellery laid out before me.

I am a woman of the Tuareg people. We are not bound to any one leader to tell us how to live our lives.

We are free to wander the desert with our flocks, to move along the trade routes with spices, fruits, nuts, gold and skins.

We are free to stay in our villages and care for our crops and beasts.

We are many: different, changeable, but all free.

I must choose my path now.

My hands shake. My eyes blur. Across this floor is laid my life, in silver, gold, amber, carnelian, every colour and every symbol that has marked the tale of my days.

I begin. I wear only a simple robe. There is no time for fussing over colours and textures to please the eye.

I lift each item of jewellery from the floor, in the order in which it came to me.

Slowly, I put on each piece, my hands struggling with the clasps.

Watch, now, as I lift up each jewel, for it will tell you my story.