Page 25 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

“If you say so,” she says. There is a heaviness to her voice, a weariness. “I am only warning you not to drink from it. Let Yusuf desire Zaynab. They can be no harm in it. They are betrothed, they are to be married, they may as well desire one another. Why would you seek otherwise?”

She has asked the question I cannot answer, of course. There is no reason why I should drink from the cup, no reason I should not let Yusuf drink from it, since I know full well what it contains and what its intended purpose is.

I look away. “I do not wish my master to be drugged,” I say.

“It only enhances what is already there,” she says. “You might want to think on that.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that you feel what you feel for your master already,” she says. “The cup did not put that feeling there. It has only forced you to acknowledge that it exists. Stop drinking from it. Go back to your prayers. Keep your distance from Yusuf. In time, the feelings will fade. If you let them.”

“Leave me,” I say.

“Do not touch the cup again,” she says.

“Is that a threat?” I ask.

“It is a warning,” she says. She has already turned away from me, is already out of the door before I can think how to reply.

I stand, uncertain for a moment, then kneel again, my hands tight together, my eyes closed. I mumble a prayer by rote, without meaning, without any feeling attached to it, knowing as I do so that it is meaningless to pray like this.

That night the cup is brought for Yusuf again, this time by a servant.

I do not touch it; I turn my face away and pretend not to have seen it.

I tell myself that this is my choice, that I have not been influenced by Hela.

Which I know is a lie. I keep away from Yusuf, I try to be busy elsewhere when he is nearby, I avoid our conversations in the evenings, claiming to be busy, to be tired.

I hear him toss and turn at night as I lie awake, forcing myself to stay where I am rather than reach out to him.

I may have stopped drinking from the cup, but I have to admit to myself, to no-one else, that Hela was right in what she said.

The cup only enhances what was already there.

“My marriage will take place soon,” Yusuf says suddenly one evening.

I try not to look at him, continue stirring the stew I am making.

I want to tell him that ‘soon’ is precisely ten days away, that I know the number of days till the day of his marriage at all times, that if a stranger were to stop me in the street and ask me, I could tell him not just the days but the very hours until the ceremony that will bind Yusuf and Zaynab together.

I am like a candle, burning down to the appointed time, knowing darkness is coming soon. I only nod, staying silent.

“You already know I am a man of simple needs,” he says. He sounds awkward, his words circuitous coming from a man who usually speaks his mind plainly and without decoration.

I look up at him briefly, nod to show I am listening.

“Some small buildings have already been built,” he says. “Soon there will be many more.” He pauses, as though I should comment, as though he has made himself clear already.

I say nothing.

“I have arranged for you to have a small house,” he says, looking down at his sword, which he is unnecessarily polishing. “It is nothing elaborate, only a room in a little courtyard, but you will be safe there and can live as you wish.”

I stare at him. “Live as I wish?”

He shrugs. “Tend your plants, pray, whatever makes you happy.” He swallows, turns the sword over in his lap, begins polishing the other side. “I would like you to be happy.”

I want to reach out. I want to touch his face, pull aside his veil so that I may see what is hidden from me.

I want to thank him and at the same time, I want to refuse.

He is pushing me away; he is giving me a home so that he can go to Zaynab unimpeded.

It is a hugely generous gesture towards a slave, and yet it fills me with anguish.

I do not want to serve Zaynab, but I cannot bear to be separated from Yusuf.

I say nothing, I do not know what to say, and what I do want to say is impossible.

“I have told Imari where it is, Aisha can take you there tomorrow. If you need help to move your plants, Imari can arrange it.”

I should say something. I should express gratitude. Instead, I spoon out the stew into a bowl and pass it to him, in silence.

Aisha does not comment. For once, she is silent.

She stands in the doorway of the tent and nods to me.

Behind her are two men with mules, ready to load up my plants and follow behind us.

I stand and follow her, walking through the city of tents, towards one of the small areas where building has already begun.

She pushes open a little gate in a high wall, showing me into a tiny courtyard, off of which are two rooms. One is a tiny kitchen, in which I can just about turn around.

The other is a larger plain room, without any hint of decoration.

Aisha watches the men unloading the plants, scattering them haphazardly around the courtyard space. “Useless,” she comments. “You will have to rearrange them all when they’ve gone.”

I nod.

“Well at least I can visit you here and not in Zaynab’s tent,” she says. “I wasn’t looking forward to that.”

I nod.

“Will you be all right?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Yusuf has been very generous.”

“But is it what you wanted?” she asks. She does not meet my eye, she looks away, as though to allow me the freedom to answer without having to meet her gaze.

“I am a nun and a slave,” I say. “I am sworn to obedience twice over. My own desires are not important.”

“It depends how strong they are,” says Aisha, still looking away. “The stronger they are, the harder it is to contain them.”

She leaves me then, and I spend the rest of the day rearranging the plants to my satisfaction. The sun is almost setting when I look up to see Yusuf standing in the gateway.

“I am sorry,” I say, springing to my feet. “I will prepare dinner at once.”

He looks amused. “I have not come to chastise you,” he says. “I came to see if all was well here.” He walks around the courtyard, sticks his head into the tiny kitchen and then the room next door to it. “Bare enough for you?” he asks, teasing.

“I am more grateful than I can say,” I say. I try to keep my voice and words formal, but I am aware that my eyes are welling up with tears. “But I am sorry to no longer serve you.”

“You will see me again,” he says. “I am still your master; you cannot rid yourself of me that easily. You have served me well and you may be of use to me in the future. Having a healer to hand is no bad thing, when you must go into battle.”

My heart lurches at the thought of him in battle. “I am sure Zaynab’s healer is very accomplished,” I say.

“I’m sure she is,” he says. “But sometimes one would rather have one’s own healer.” He pauses. “I hope you will be happy here,” he says.

“I am so grateful,” I repeat. “I am sure I will be happy here. But…”

“But what?” he asks.

“I will miss our conversations,” I say, stumbling over the words, feeling myself flush.

He looks around the tiny courtyard, gestures to the plants and a rough block of building stone left discarded. “I may have need of a quiet place, sometimes, where I can sit peacefully and talk to someone about small matters,” he says. “It is tiring to speak only of great matters.”

“I will be here,” I say. I look away, I cannot meet his gaze, but the words still come. “I will be here whenever you wish to come.”

He takes a step closer to me, pauses as though uncertain of his own movements, then lifts one hand and lightly strokes my cheek, his fingers brushing over my scars. Then, suddenly, he turns and in a moment is gone, the gate closing behind him with a shudder.

I let out the breath I did not know I was holding.

Preparations have been going on in the camp for many days, but today they reached their zenith.

From before dawn, great piles of wood were assembled, ready for fires later.

Women rose earlier than usual to knead bread and have it at the bakeries to be cooked in time.

Yesterday the blood of hundreds of animals spilled across the earth, today they will be roasted, served on great platters to the whole of the camp.

Today is Yusuf’s wedding. Today, he will marry Zaynab.

I wake and listen to the call to prayer. I wonder whether I could simply stay here all day, and see nothing of the ceremony, nothing of the feasting that will go on later. But Aisha is already at my door.

“Are you coming?” she asks and there is nothing I can say that would be acceptable. I only nod and follow her.

In the absence of a mosque, the ceremony is held in the open air, in the central space amongst this city of tents and half made buildings.

Zaynab is dressed as plainly as though she were a slave, her robes all in black, her shoes black, her long black hair falling down over her shoulders.

She is bereft of jewellery, although there is a tiny glint of something around her neck, half hidden by her robes, perhaps a very small necklace, although I cannot see it well.

A contract has been drawn up, which is signed after Yusuf, before the crowd, asks for Zaynab’s hand in marriage, having already presented many gifts to her.

Both of them declare their acceptance three times.

From where I am standing, I can barely hear their voices, only see how their eyes never leave one another, how Yusuf’s hand trembles as he offers Zaynab a date to eat and receives one from her, the sharing of sweetness a wish for their marriage.

They stand together while prayers are read over the pair of them, from the first surah of the Qu’ran.