Sarai frowned—did she even remember her eldest sister? The younger boys surely did not.
“She has been with the king ever since.” He met each of their gazes, held them to be sure they believed him. “She went with him to war, she came back six years ago. But
now she is ill. She just had her fourth child, and something came upon her. Apoplexy, it seems. She lies even now caught between life and death, and you all must pray. Every
one of you. We should fall to our knees and fast until she revives.”
Joshua muttered a curse, and Ima was so beset she did not even chide him for it. Eglah pushed away her still-empty bowl, Sarai blinked back tears. “I still remember that
last day with her,” she murmured. “The way she tickled me when she realized I had Esther’s bracelet. That is the only image I have of her, that smile on her face when she
tickled me.”
“Place that memory at the footstool of Jehovah, Sarai, and beg him to intercede on her behalf. Come, let us—”
A pounding at the door interrupted him. He glanced at Abba, who made no move to get up. It came again, harder and more frantic. “Coming!” Zechariah wove through the crowd
of siblings and over to the door.
When he opened it, Bijan gusted in with a mountainous cloak in his arms and a whole contingent behind him.
“Bijan. What—”
“We need your help.” Bijan uncovered the bundle is his arms, revealing a boy. About five years old. Zechariah’s throat went dry.
His son. His son was here, in his home.
Bijan turned and handed Navid to . . . Ruana, he saw when the hood of her cloak fell. Her hands shook as she reached for him, her face white as the moon.
Her brother’s side oozed red. Zechariah reached to support him when he wobbled. “You are injured. Ima, we need help! What happened, Bijan?”
His friend winced in pain. “I was visiting them when the announcement reached the house about the Jews.”
Ima rushed up, a bowl of water and rags in hand. Zechariah eased Bijan to a seat. “What announcement?”
“You have not heard?” Bijan blinked, then shook his head. “Haman has been given control, and he issued a proclamation that all Jews are to be killed on the thirteenth day
of the twelfth month.”
The bowl of water crashed to the floor, shattered and splashed. Silence pulsed through the room, then an explosion of voices. Some angry, some confused, some incredulous.
Zechariah met his friend’s gaze. “How did Haman get authority to do this?”
“The king gave him his signet.” Bijan shifted, hissed out a breath. “When the proclamation reached our ears, Asho went wild. Said something like, ‘Why wait until then?’
and lunged at the nurse, shouting that he would rid his house of the Jews before they stole his family.”
Zechariah darted a glance at where Ruana huddled in a corner with her son. She met his gaze, things in her eyes he never thought he would see. Things that added depth,
maturity . . . and with them beauty beyond what he had found so tempting six years ago.
Ima crouched down to pick up the pieces of broken pottery, even as Eglah rushed over with another bowl of water. His mother looked around. “Where is the nurse? Is she
injured too?”
Bijan clenched his teeth, nostrils flaring. “She was dead before I could get across the room. Then Ruana was shouting that her heart was already Jehovah’s, and he came
after her.” His eyes went unfocused. “Navid was right there, watching, yet Asho flew at her with the same dagger . . .”
“You stopped him.” Eglah’s hand shook as she dipped a rag into the water. “I need to see the wound, Bijan.”
“I stopped him.” He pulled his arms out of the tunic and secured it at his waist. The angry gash in his side still oozed blood. “I had to kill him to do so.”
Ruana shifted the child in her arms and stepped forward. “Now Mother is furious and has disowned us both for casting our allegiance with the Jews. And Asho’s family that
was there . . . they would kill us. They threatened to take Navid away.”
“I could think of nowhere else to bring them.” Bijan gasped when the wet cloth touched his wound.
Abba stepped into the circle and surveyed first Bijan, then Ruana, and finally the collection of servants they had brought. “You have proven yourself a true friend to my
son, Bijan. And that you would risk your life like this . . . you and yours are welcome here. There is no room for all of you in the main house, but I imagine Zechariah will
let you stay in his.”
“Of course. High time it get some use.”
Ima dropped the broken bowl into the refuse bin and spun away. “I will air it out and give it a quick cleaning.”
Two of Ruana’s maidservants scurried after her.