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“I hope no one was injured,” I said to Abdullah, who was walking beside me.

“There was time for them to get out and other places where they could go,” Abdullah said indifferently.

“Yes, but . . .” I stopped. Next to one pile of shapeless earth a woman crouched, rocking back and forth and keening in a high-pitched wail. “Good heavens, Abdullah, there must be someone buried under there.”

Abdullah’s wordless shout made the others spin round, but it was too late; they were only a few feet away, but they could not have reached her in time to stop her. Her finger was on the trigger as she straightened, and she did not even wait to hurl a final curse at me, she fired three times before she was crushed under the weight of several men.

I heard the sound of the bullets strike—but I did not feel them, for it was not my body they struck. One step was all there was time for, and there was only one man who could have taken it. He fell back against me and I threw both arms round him as we sank to the ground together. I was aware of raised voices and running forms, but only as a remote irrelevance; my eyes and my whole mind were fixed on the body of the man whose head I cradled in my arms. The white robe was crimson from breast to waist and the stain spread out with hideous quickness. Nefret knelt beside us, her hands pressing hard on the spurting wounds. I did not need to see her ashen face to know there was no hope.

Abdullah’s eyes opened. “So, Sitt,” he gasped. “Am I dying?”

I held him closer. “Yes,” I said.

“It is . . . good.” His eyes were dimming but they wandered slowly over the faces that bent over him, and it seemed to please him to see them there. His gaze returned to me. His lips moved, and I bent my head to hear the whispered words. I thought he was gone, then, but he had one more thing to say.

“Emerson. Watch over her. She is not . . .”

“I will.” Emerson took his hand. “I will, old friend. Go in peace.”

It was he who closed Abdullah’s staring eyes and folded his hands on his breast. I gave him over to Daoud and Selim and David; it was their right to care for him now. They were all crying. Nefret wept against Ramses’s shoulder, and Emerson turned away and raised his hand to his face. Ramses’s grave dark eyes met mine over Nefret’s bowed head. He had not shed a tear—nor had I.

:

Bertha was dead of multiple injuries, including several stab wounds. It would have been difficult to ascertain whose hand had struck the mortal blow.

I have no very clear memory of what happened immediately afterwards. We went back to our house to prepare for the funeral, which would take place that evening. My garments were sticky with blood, but I refused Nefret’s offer of assistance. After I had bathed and changed I went to my room. The others were in the parlor. There is often comfort in companionship in cases of bereavement, but I did not want anyone’s company then, not even that of Emerson.

My eyes were still dry. I wanted to cry; my throat was so tight I could hardly swallow, as if the tears were dammed by an unyielding barrier. I sat on the edge of the bed, with my hands folded in my lap, and looked at the bloodstained garments spread across a chair.

He had not thought much of me, or of any woman, when we first met. The change had come so slowly it was hard to remember a precise moment when suspicion had turned to affection and contempt to friendship, and then to something more. I remembered the day he had led me to the dreadful den where Emerson was held prisoner. When I broke down, he had called me “daughter” and stroked my hair; and then he had gone back to gather his men and join them in fighting to free the man he loved like a brother. It was not the only time he had risked his life for one or both of us.

I remembered my remote, indifferent father. I remembered my brothers, who had ignored and insulted me until I came into Papa’s money—the only thing he had ever given me. I thought of Daoud’s warm embrace and Kadija’s loving care and Abdullah’s dying