Saba noted that Kubalou’s frustration had begun to break through.
Her mother closed her eyes for a moment and suddenly looked weary. But when they opened again, Saba saw no weakness there, only a simmering anger. She wondered if her wrath was directed at Kubalou or Amida.
Saba felt suffocated by her own silence. She wanted to speak her mind, in English, to this arrogant foreigner. She felt sure that of all the people in the room, she could handle him best. Kubalou was a predator, she saw that clearly. She imagined him as a wild boar with saber-sharp tusks. She looked directly at the man for the first time. He appeared startled by her direct gaze, but immediately caught it, locking his eyes with hers. His thick lips curved into a slight smile.
The way to deal with a predator, Saba thought, was to treat it as prey, never taking your eyes from it. She had learned that from her mother.
Kubalou’s eyes hardened and he turned back to the priestess.
“Well, have you thought it over, ma’am?” he asked her impatiently. “What do you say?”
“We decline your offer.”
The lines around Amida’s mouth deepened. He looked angry.
“Christ. Women and business,” Kubalou muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Mother,” Amida said urgently, “this is our big chance. There aren’t any other jobs that pay as well as this and it’s not something we don’t already do. You said yourself we have to do something to stop the young people from leaving. What else have we got to offer them?”
“Heart,” Balkis said simply.
Kubalou asked Amida what had been said. When Amida told him, he snapped, “You’d be better off using your head.”
Amida hesitated, then translated it for his mother.
Balkis turned her icy gaze on the man who now stood before her. “Thank you for making us this generous offer, Kubalou Efendi. I regret the Habesh cannot join your organization. I bid you good night.”
“Oh, I ain’t Mister Kubalou, ma’am. Mister Kubalou couldn’t come, so he sent me instead. But I speak for him, don’t think that I don’t.”
Saba could see that her brother was as surprised as they were.
“Who are you?” Balkis demanded.
“No need to get all worked up, ma’am. I never told this boy otherwise. I assumed he knew I wasn’t Mister Kubalou. Never occurred to me he didn’t know, or I would’ve set him straight. But it makes no difference, as I told you. My word is his word. I’m what you might call his right-hand man. Name’s Ben.”
Amida staggered through the translation. Even Saba could make little sense of some of the words.
The man put his hat on. “Well, ma’am. I’m sorry to waste your time, and you mine. Good night to you.”
“Go in peace,” Saba heard her mother say.
Outraged as much at Amida as at the man she had thought was Kubalou, Saba rose to her feet. As the man passed her, he said in English in a low voice, “I hope we meet again some time, Miss Saba.”
He must have noticed that she had been following the conversation, Saba realized, and it chilled her that he knew her name. She wondered what the real Kubalou was like. What kind of predator were they dealing with?
“I doubt it,” she responded coolly in English, then turned and walked away.
Amida passed her and followed Mister Ben out. She saw from the surprise and alarm on Amida’s face that he had heard her speak English. What did he want with this counterfeit Kubalou?
She looked over at her mother and saw that she was slumped forward.
“Mama, Mama. What is it?” She ran to her side.
Balkis’s mouth was open, her breathing erratic. “Nothing, dear,” she gasped. “Get me my powder.”
Saba opened the glass-fronted case and took out a slim envelope. She unfolded it and poured the powder into a glass of water, then took it to her mother.
“Get Gudit,” Balkis said weakly.
But Gudit had already appeared, as she always did, seemingly out of nowhere. She helped Balkis to her bedroom and closed the door behind them.
Amida didn’t return.
Saba hovered around her mother’s door until Gudit emerged.
“She’ll be fine,” the midwife told her gruffly. “Stop hanging about like an unweaned calf.”
Saba slipped on her shoes and went outside into the cold air. She felt emotionally exhausted, but also exhilarated. She had felt a power in herself tonight that she hadn’t known she possessed. A fulcrum that had found its center.
Her ears became aware of a commotion in the village square. Pulling her charshaf close about her, she ran down the road. In the square, she saw Amida and the ginger-haired man, surrounded by some of the young men of the village, talking in excited voices. A dark stranger with long, gangly limbs stood beside the counterfeit Kubalou, looking bored. Saba saw him whisper something to Amida, then pull on Mister Ben’s sleeve.
She stopped outside the glow of the lamp and watched, feeling her anger rise again. There would be only one source of power in this community, she decided. There was more at stake than a simple village and a way of life. Amida chose to ignore that at his peril. Perhaps he no longer believed in the Proof of God, in the mission of the priestess and caretaker, the charge left them by Melisane and Michael, their founders. People with no imagination believed survival depended on money. She would see to it that Amida didn’t sell the kernel of their faith so cheaply.
She suddenly remembered her mother’s face before she had drunk the powder. It was gray with pain. Her mother, she realized, was sicker than she let on. As she walked back through the darkness, Saba was suddenly afraid. If her mother died, there would be no one but Uncle Malik, who might not be much help against her brother and Kubalou. She stopped under the poplar tree just inside the courtyard. There would be no one by her side, no one to support her. She had never felt more alone.
Her mind wandered to Kamil Pasha. Why had Uncle Malik spoken so often about Kamil if he hadn’t meant for them to be together? Leaning her cheek against the tree trunk, she began to cry.
Aware of someone standing behind her, she turned.
“Pardon me, Saba Hanoum. I apologize for intruding.” It was Constantine Courtidis. “Someone rode over and told me your mother was ill, so I came right away. Are you alright?” The concern in his voice irritated her because it made her want to cry even more, and she had to force herself not to lean forward onto his chest and allow him to minister to her as well as to her mother.
She took a deep breath and said, “Mama is in her bedroom, Constantine. Come in. Thank you for coming so late.”
“I’m the slave of your eyes, Saba Hanoum.”
She thought his eyes brimmed as if he too were about to cry. Her melancholy needed stronger medicine than this well-meaning but artless young man.
Saba led him into Balkis’s bedroom. Gudit always disappeared as soon as Courtidis was sent for. Balkis was asleep, her chest rising and falling evenly, but her face retained traces of anguish.
“What’s wrong with her?” Saba asked in a small voice.
Courtidis looked closely at his patient and felt her forehead. “She won’t let me examine her, so I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“In cases like this, I need to see, beg your pardon, all of my patient. There must be an infection somewhere.”
Saba looked puzzled. “I’m surprised. I don’t think she’s conservative about things like that. She’s always been very practical. Have you explained it to her?” But as she said this, Saba realized she too had never seen her mother naked. Gudit always helped her with her clothes and in the bath. Perhaps Balkis was more prudish than Saba thought.
“I’ll talk to her,” she promised. “Can it wait until she’s awake?”
Constantine regarded his patient and suggested, “Shall I stay, Saba Hanoum? I’d be happy to keep watch over her.”
Saba saw the worried frown on his face. Suddenly distressed, she asked, “Is it that serious?”