They walked through the hotel gates and across the square. The cafés were already full of patrons drinking mint tea and coffee, the pleasant aromas infiltrating the open air, beckoning passersby to stop in for a cup. Patrick lingered for a moment, breathing in the fragrant mixture of spicy Arabic coffee and heady green tea.
Linley slowed her pace to allow him to catch up. There would be plenty of time for the cafés, but she was eager to reach the souk. She led him through an alleyway shaded by reed screens. High above, laundry lines crisscrossed the narrow opening of blue sky. They descended down a curved stone staircase, delving deeper into the city. At the bottom of the steps, a group of young Moroccan boys pressed their backs against the wall to let them pass, and then disappeared down the long corridor of brightly colored buildings.
“I cannot believe your father would allow you to venture here your own,” Patrick said, struggling to keep track of which way they came and in what direction they were headed.
“I’m sure it’s no different than in London,” Linley explained. “You learn where to go and where not to go, and how to move about as safely as possible.”
He choked back a laugh at her ignorance. “In London, young ladies generally do not walk unaccompanied.”
“Really?”
Patrick nodded, even though he walked a few paces behind her.
They reached the end of the maze of alleyways and found themselves in the heart of the souk. Linley rested a shoulder against the corner of an adobe-daubed building and turned to face her companion. “If London women must wait for their fathers and brothers just to walk through town, it’s a wonder they ever make it outside at all.”
“I agree.” He reached up and pulled off his straw hat, giving his damp brown hair a hard shake. “You would have a lady’s companion or your mother to escort you.”
“This is 1913, not 1813. You cannot expect me to believe people still live by all those stuffy, antiquated rules.”
“Some do.”
“Only the most backward,” she said. “Probably the same folks who think women shouldn’t learn to drive, or attend school, or—”
“That is stretching it a bit, I think.”
“Regardless, I have neither mother nor chaperone, and I make do quite well on my own.”
Patrick pressed his hat back down on his head. “Then I put myself at your mercy.” He gave her a quick smile and gestured to the busy marketplace.
With a bright grin, Linley pushed off from the wall and joined the crowd of shoppers milling between the stalls. On every side, vendors offered something unique—lemons, olives, strong incense, colorful shoes, hand-worked leather goods, copper lanterns, and goatskin wine pouches. Patrick imagined Covent Garden couldn’t have been so busy on market days.
Linley browsed carefully, methodically. She studied the items in each stall, remembering who had the best selections and prices. At a perfume stand, she sampled every concoction on display. Finally, she held a bottle under Patrick’s nose. “I think this is my favorite,” she said. “What do you think?”
He breathed in the light scent of the jasmine water. “I like it.”
Linley gestured to the perfume-maker, indicating that she would buy it. They haggled over the price for a moment, and once an agreement was reached, the money changed hands. “Do you have someone you would like to buy for?” she asked, turning to Patrick.
He looked around at the commotion in the marketplace. “My sister. Although I confess I’m not very good at picking out presents for her. The electric toaster I bought last year did not go over very well.”
“You bought your sister a toaster?”
“As a wedding gift. She is very particular about her toast. And since I couldn’t very well let her take the cook, I found out what kind of toaster we had and bought her the same,” he explained. “I thought it would make the transition to her new home a little easier.”
Linley smiled. “That was very thoughtful of you, but I don’t think an electric toaster is quite the gift every young woman dreams of.”
“No, apparently not.”
They walked on, searching through the stalls for souvenirs. Linley would miss Morocco, and wanted to stock up on all the things she’d grown to love about its cities and its people. Patrick was determined to find the perfect gift for Georgiana, and perhaps even a little something for himself.
They passed a space selling lanterns and birdcages with an enormous pile of oil lamps strewn across the dirt.
Linley stooped down and fished one out of the heap. “A genie lamp!”
Smiling at her, Patrick reached over and gave the silver lamp a firm rub with the palm of his hand. They both laughed, waiting to see if anything appeared. When nothing happened, Linley started to toss it back down in the pile, but Patrick stopped her.
“Maybe the genie is just shy,” he explained. “What say I take him back to England with me? Perhaps there, I will get my three wishes after all.”