Page 2 of The Immortal’s Trick (Bound to the Immortals)

The scent of lentils and stewed onions wafts through the house, warm and rich.

Smoke from the cooking fire drifts out the windows in hazy trails as twilight sinks over our home.

The sun’s burn fades into a soft orange glow that turns the fields gold, and for the first time in days, the house feels full.

Father is seated upright, his back cushioned by folded blankets, his face hollow but alert.

His illness keeps him in bed more often than not—fevers, coughing fits, spells where he forgets what year it is—but tonight he looks more himself.

Nebet and I sit on either side of him like bookends, each watching for any sign that he might tip over or slip into a coughing spell.

For now, though, he laughs.

The twins, Ruia and Sabaf, sit cross-legged at his feet, animated as they take turns describing some wild story about the neighbor boy, a black cat, and a supposedly cursed pomegranate tree. It’s nonsense, but it makes Father chuckle, and I don’t have the heart to stop them.

I don’t remember the last time I heard him laugh.

He reaches out with his good hand and tousles Sab’s hair. “You two should write plays. The theatre could use wild imaginations like yours.”

The boys beam, their joy contagious. Even Nebet smiles, her tired eyes bright for once.

I try to hold the moment close, tuck it somewhere safe. But I know better. Moments like these are short-lived in our house.

Sure enough, Father shifts, clearing his throat. “I trust the delivery went well today?”

My smile freezes as the image of the striking Greek flashes in my mind.

I glance at Nebet, but she’s already composing a polite reply. “It did,” she says quickly. “We saw Ani. He helped us unload the cart.”

“How is the Nsar boy? Still pining after our Eshe?” the older man chuckles, and Ruia and Sab join in. I stare at the wine pitcher.

Nebet shoots me a hesitant glance before replying, “Ani is well.”

Father nods. “Glad to hear it. He is a good boy from a good family.” Then his eyes land on me. “You would be lucky to have him.”

Still looking at the clay container, I scoff and say, “His father would not allow him to align himself with a destitute family.”

It’s a low blow, but I’ve had enough of the teasing—especially from my father—when it comes to Ani.

Father’s smile fades. “Surely Mr. Nsar would not deny his son happiness.”

“Ani and I have no understanding,” I point out, finally meeting his gaze. If he’s relying on Ani’s family to rescue us from this financial mess, he’s sorely mistaken.

“That is only a matter of time,” he says.

I bite the inside of my cheek. He's not listening. He never listens.

“I don’t want Eshe to marry Ani,” Sab says softly, surprising the table. All eyes turned to him.

“What was that, son?” Father’s voice sharpens.

Sab doesn’t notice. He stirs his lentils around his bowl and shrugs. “I don’t want Eshe to leave. We need her here. I’d miss her.”

My heart twists. I reach for him, but Father speaks first.

“What we need,” he says, more steel than breath, “is to survive.”

The room falls silent. Nebet and my brothers shift, uncomfortable. I stay perfectly still and meet Father’s sickly but determined gaze.

“We will sell our crops and be fine,” I say.

He leans back, eyes dull but mouth firm. “What we need is certainty. You think our crops will carry us through if we have another bad season? You think my body will magically start working again?”

I don’t flinch. “So you’ll try to sell off your daughters instead?”

“I expect my daughters to make advantageous marriages.”

A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “With what dowry? What wedding gifts? Do we even have enough wine left for guests to toast with?”

His face does not change. “Benipe stopped by while you two were gone.”

The name slams into my chest.

“He inquired after Nebet.”

“No,” I say immediately, jerking my head to the side so hard my long black braid swats the side of my face. “Absolutely not.”

“I gave no assurances,” Father replies, too calm.

“He’s twice her age,” I snap. “He’s disgusting.”

“He’s wealthy,” Father counters.

Nebet has gone still beside me. Her hands are folded in her lap, clenched too tightly.

“Isn’t Benipe the fat man? The one who sells furniture from foreign lands?” Ruia blurts, shameless as ever. For once, it makes me smirk.

“He is the wealthiest man among our class,” Father hisses. “And he should be respected.”

I stare at a knot in the wood under my hands, but the image of that bloated old man trying to touch my sister burns into my thoughts.

Benipe might be rich, but I’d rather lose a limb than let him put a hand on Nebet. She deserves better.

Father thinks he’s doing the right thing. Maybe he’s too sick to see another way. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore.

But I do.

And I won’t let Nebet pay the price of my father’s mistakes and misfortunes.

I glance at her now. She’s staring at her lap, lips pressed in a line.

I catch her gaze and hold it.

Do not worry, I promise her without speaking. I will not let this happen.

Her eyes soften and shine, just slightly.

I know , she answers with her silence.

Now, I just need to figure out how.