Page 30 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

She takes a deep breath, swallows, as though she cannot say something that must be said. “I want you to take my son.”

I stare at her, unable to believe what she has just said. “Why?”

“Zaynab… threatened him.”

“You could go to your husband.”

She only shakes her head as though what I have suggested is not even worth considering.

I think of Zaynab and think that perhaps she is right, although I am also angry with Yusuf for not protecting this girl from the power of Zaynab, for not seeing the imbalance and seeking to redress it, as he should.

“Will you take him?” she asks. Her voice shakes, I can see tears welling up in her eyes.

I look at the tiny shock of dark hair emerging from the bundle in her arms, am about to reach out. But I am unsure. “For how long?”

“Forever,” she says.

I step back. “Forever? Where will you be?”

She shakes her head. “I do not know,” she says. “I may have to leave this place to ensure Ali is safe. But I cannot visit him, cannot see him again, or Zaynab will know I am his mother.”

“She came to your house.”

“She did not see him,” she says. “I will say he is dead.” Even the thought of it makes her arms tighten round the baby and he stirs in her arms, lets out a tiny cry but then settles again.

“And his father?” I think of telling Yusuf his son has died, what pain that would cause.

She swallows again. “He will know him when he is old enough.”

“How?”

She fumbles one-handed in her robes and pulls out a string of silver beads.

They are shaped like slender tubes half a finger long, marked with tiny designs.

“Yusuf gave me these for our child. He will recognise them when he sees them again. You must keep them safe for Ali when he is old enough to make himself known, when he is a man.”

I stand silently.

“Will you take him?” she asks again.

“I must pray,” I say abruptly.

I turn away from Kella and kneel below the cross. I know she is watching me, but my hands are shaking, my stomach is roiling. Perhaps she thinks that I am unwilling to take the baby, that I want no part of this falsehood, that I will not allow lies to be told over his birth, his ancestry.

She is wrong.

I want this baby desperately.

I am lonely here and yet bound by my vows.

The person to whom I gave my heart I cannot have, yet here is his son, alike to him in every way, his tiny face a copy of his father, of Yusuf.

I want this child more than anything I have ever desired.

I want to have him for my own, to feel close to his father, to pretend, in my sinful soul, that there is something between us, that his child might have been my child, our child.

I try to pray but the words do not come, not even of prayers I know by rote.

I should be asking for the strength to refuse this child, and yet I cannot form the prayer to ask for His guidance.

Rather I find myself imagining holding the baby again, as I did when he was born into my hands, of clasping his tiny warm body close to mine, of looking into his dark eyes and knowing that I am holding Yusuf’s son.

At last, I give up. I know exactly what I am doing and why, I know that I am sinning because of my desire for a man, because of my loneliness here. I cross myself even as I commit this sin and rise, turn back to Kella. Even now I might refuse, might do what is right.

“I will take him,” I say and now it is too late. “I will keep him safe until he is grown to be a man and I will bear witness to your husband that he is your child and his.” My voice is shaking, my arms tremble as I hold them out to receive the child, every part of me aching with desire.

She tries to move, tries to hold him out to me but her whole body convulses in sobs.

She rocks him in her arms, her face buried against his skin and I see a desire that matches mine, a pain like nothing I can imagine.

I wait, but I can see that she will not, cannot, let him go.

That if I do not take him from her, she will be unable to give him to me.

I reach out and take him from her very gently, my hands cradling him, trying to show Kella with my every tiny movement how much I will love him.

She lets out a low moan of pain, tears falling so fast down her face that the floor is covered with tiny drops of her grief.

Ali begins to cry and at once her hands reach out for him, but I shake my head.

“You must go now,” I say. “Or you will be found out.”

She backs away from me and then turns. I hear her footsteps in the darkness of the tiny courtyard and the heavy thud of the gate.

Ali begins to cry, and I realise suddenly that he will need feeding, milk.

How could I not have thought of this before?

For a moment I think I will take him back, run after Kella and return him, to deal with Zaynab as she sees fit, without involving me in her rivalries and struggles.

But I have given my word, and I do not know what may become of this baby, Ali, if I do not care for him.

If I return him, will I hear that he has died, and know that I am to blame?

No, I have given my word, and now I must face the consequences.

I try to rock him, but he is displeased with my awkward efforts. He cries more loudly.

I think of the beggar woman Rebecca, her belly swelling day by day and wonder whether her time has come and if she could be persuaded, for a little money, to feed another mouth.

I rock Ali in my arms, his warm body struggling against mine, dissatisfied with his treatment.

Already, I have failed him. I grab a cloak, one-handed, marvelling at the difficulty of holding a baby and doing anything else at the same time.

Clutching him to me, still wailing, I make my way through the night, out to the city walls.

I slip through a gate and then follow the edge of the walls, nervous at being outside the safety of the city.

But I do not walk far before I see a shape huddled against the wall.

I crouch down beside her, noting as I do so that her shape has changed, the broad belly she held before her has gone, and now there is only an empty pouch.

“Rebecca,” I say, shaking her shoulder. “Rebecca, wake up.”

She stirs, mutters something and returns to her sleep, pulling the worn cover I once gave her over her head. But I cannot let her escape me so easily.

“Rebecca, I have need of you.”

It is not my voice but Ali’s whimpering that she responds to. Slowly, she pulls away the cover over her head and stares up at him, eyes narrowed.

“Jacob?” she says, in a whisper. “Jacob, is that you?”

I squat down next to her. “His name is Ali,” I say. “What happened to your baby?”

She keeps her gaze on Ali. “Jacob?” she asks, one more time.

“Ali,” I repeat.

She looks away then, unhappy, disappointed.

“Did your baby die?” I ask. “Or was he taken?”

She shakes her head. “Died,” she says dully, without emotion, as though all her feeling has already been drained from her.

“When?” I ask.

“Don’t know,” she says. She shakes her head, as though trying to remember, although her life has little need of dates. “Three days?”

I do not know if what I am about to suggest is cruelty in its highest form or a kindness. Perhaps it is both. “Can you feed this child?” I ask. “He has no mother,” I add.

“Where is she?”

I shake my head. I must know what lie to tell, from now until forever. “She died in childbirth,” I say. “I promised to care for him. Can you feed him? I have no one else to ask. I can pay you.”

“I – I don’t know,” she says, but her eyes are fixed on him again.

“I will pay you,” I say again. “You can live with me, there is food and a warm bed, I have a little money.”

“What if my milk does not come?”

“It will come,” I say with certainty, although I am not as sure as I sound.

She does not look at me. She looks at Ali. “Yes,” she says at last, and reaches out to touch the little tuft of black hair he has on his head. “Yes.”

We make our way back through the streets, back to my home. By the time we reach the gate, Ali is screaming, his lungs belying his size. As soon as we are inside, I find her a seat and thrust him into Rebecca’s arms. “Feed him,” I say.

They fumble together, the two of them, she uncertain of what to do and he certain of what he wants, frustrated at the inability to get it immediately. I try to help but only get in the way. Suddenly she gasps and he is silent, and I realise that he has found what he sought.

“He is sucking,” she says.

“God be praised,” I say, my voice weak with relief. “I will make you a tea, it will help your milk.”

I make her fenugreek tea, preparing a large pot of it and giving it to her every hour that night, waking her from where she sleeps on my bed.

I do not sleep. I hold Ali in my arms and rock him throughout the night, while thinking of all I must do when the morning comes.

I watch her sleep huddled in my blankets, watch Ali sleep in my arms, and give him to her two or three times that night when he wishes to feed again.

When he sleeps, near dawn, I make bread and more tea, prepare nuts and stewed fruit and a broth to strengthen Rebecca.

When she wakes, I feed her until she can eat no more, give her a basin of warm water with which to wash herself, and my spare robe to dress in, so that she is clean.

When she is clothed and fed, I give her Ali again and tell her I am going out.