Aynur narrowed her eyes in disbelief when she saw Emily ride into the courtyard behind André. Had her husband brought back a wife from Mogador?
She had been dreading this for a long time. Although her face was still smooth and her body still slender and lithe after six pregnancies, she was no longer young at the age of thirty-seven. But she had not become pregnant in the two years since the tiny newborn body of her youngest daughter, Thiyya, had been laid to rest next to her sister, Izza. Perhaps her husband did want more children, even though he assured her time and again that he had enough.
But did he have to humiliate her with a wife young enough to be his daughter? The stranger was beautiful, supple like a young cedar tree and with regal bearing. She could not be Berber because she wore neither traditional clothing nor bore tribal tattoos on her forehead and cheeks. And an Arab woman would wear a veil. She had to be a foreigner.
Another foreigner! Jealousy flared inside Aynur. She would have liked to yank the strange woman off her horse and press her face in the dust. Wherever the creature came from, she would learn not to intrude into Aynur’s home!
“Frédéric!” She took her eldest by the shirt and pulled him closer. “Who is the guest that Baba has brought?” she hissed in her native Glaoua language.
The dancing torchlight lent him an insolent, rakish look. “He said he’ll introduce her at dinner. But she’s pretty, isn’t she, Imma? Perhaps she’ll become my bride.”
Aynur playfully punched her eldest, secretly relieved by a possibility she had not considered. “Don’t stand around and talk all night! Go and help your brothers unload the donkey.”
André jumped off his horse and threw the reins to a stable boy. Then he helped the young woman dismount. Aynur watched him hold the stirrup steady with one hand and extend the other. The young woman smiled nervously, slid out of the saddle, and stood close to André.
Aynur grasped the locket with her children’s hair that she wore on a silver chain around her neck. Then she resolutely lifted her chin.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emily sat next to her father on one of the two sofas in the dining room and tried to look as confident as possible. She was glad that a flat cedarwood table separated her and Aynur, since the lady of the house had given her a cool reception indeed. Now she sat enthroned on the opposite side of the table, demonstrably surrounded by her sons. Cowering on a chair in a corner was a frightening figure: a very old Negro woman, her talon-like fingers clutching the armrests and her gaze unremittingly fixed on Emily. André had introduced her as Tamra, Aynur’s servant. Still, Emily felt uneasy at the sight of the almost-bald old woman, who continually made disagreeable grunting sounds.
The dining room was not furnished in the European style like her home in Mogador. This one had low sofas with colorful throws. A wool rug covered the blue, green, and red floor tiles, bowls of fragrant dried flowers filled in the alcoves, and iron chandeliers threw flickering shapes on the whitewashed walls. The arched windows were large, with elegant colored panes that dated back to the previous owner, the late Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman.
The hearth gave off cracking sounds, the old woman in her chair went on mumbling to herself, but everything else was shrouded in explosive silence. Aynur sat very straight on the sofa. With her embroidered blouse, her wide, colorful skirt, and her opulent silver jewelry, she reminded Emily of a pretty doll, if not for her tight lips and the hostility in her brown eyes.
However, Emily was determined not to be intimidated. If she had succeeded in standing up to her own formidable mother, she could surely do the same with this woman.
The door was opened and Emily’s half sister, Malika, entered, followed by two servants. The women brought platters with steaming couscous, fresh flatbread, and tureens from which emanated the tempting aromas of mint, honey, and lemon.
Malika was a younger version of her mother, so small and dainty that Emily felt like a giant. Her skin glistened and her shiny pitch-black hair reached down to her hips. Whenever she moved, the silver bangles she wore on both wrists jingled. Like her mother, she was dressed in a tunic, a wide calf-length skirt, and boots made of soft leather. She reminded Emily of the dancer in the music box her stepgrandmother Mary had sent her from England years ago.
Malika daintily placed the heavy platter on the table and threw an inquisitive glance at Emily with her gorgeous kohl-rimmed eyes. Emily found herself hoping that they would be not only sisters but also friends.
At a nod from Aynur, the servants left the room. André placed his arm around Emily’s shoulder and cleared his throat.
“My dear family, I’m sure you’re asking yourselves who our guest is.”
“I hope it is the wife you have chosen for me,” Frédéric said impertinently.
Emily blushed, Aynur hissed something to her son, and André merely shook his head and laughed. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you, son, but I am still expecting that you will choose your own bride.” He looked at Aynur and paused for a long moment. “This young woman is Emily. I have known her for a long time, but it was only a few days ago that I discovered that she is my daughter. From now on, Qasr el Bahia will be her home as much as it is yours.”
The room was so still that one could have heard a pin drop. Then the old woman in her corner uttered a whistling sound as though exhaling all her breath.
Emily looked uncertainly at Aynur, who had her hand before her mouth. Her face revealed surprise and pain, but also relief. At least she no longer looked hostile, and Emily felt her confidence return.
Malika was the first to rise. She walked to Emily with her arms wide and kissed her. “Asselama outletsma, welcome, Sister!” she quietly said in her Berber language before switching to Arabic. “I have always wanted a sister.”
The brothers too gathered around their new family member. Christian was a little shy, Frédéric announced grandiloquently that he would be able to show off two beautiful sisters at the next tribal meeting, and the little one shyly touched Emily’s curls.
Tamra’s head wobbled and she grunted something, but Emily couldn’t discern whether it was a greeting or curse.
Now Aynur got up, went to Emily, and embraced her formally. “Welcome to Qasr el Bahia, my husband’s daughter. His guests are also my guests.”
Only much later on that night, when they were alone in their bedroom, did Aynur tell her husband what she felt in her heart of hearts.