“Enough!” André shouted. “Put your weapons down! Those barrels may be crooked as the horns of a mountain goat, but you could still hit an innocent with them. And now”—he turned to the leader—“you listen to me: the Ait Zelten and I have been good neighbors for more than twenty years. Do you really think that you can command me to leave the land that has been given to me by two of Morocco’s sultans? Who do you think you are?”
“The faransawi is right,” the sheikh said. “He helped us when we lost the greater part of our herds and were starving. Without him, your wretched bones would have turned to dust long ago! He may be an infidel, but he is a friend and you are showing your gratitude with hatred. Shame!”
“If he hadn’t stolen our land, we wouldn’t have lost those herds in the first place. Here”—the leader drew a wide circle with his arm—“is where our goats once grazed. No sultan can give this land away. It was ours long before the Arabs arrived!”
“Ay, ay!” the riders shouted approvingly.
“I listened to your ramblings twenty years ago. At that time, this land no longer belonged to your herds,” André countered. “But now it feeds many people. Get off your horses and help feed your people instead of being a burden to them!”
The leader waved his gun in the direction of the Ait Zelten workers, who had been silently following the altercation.
“What are you? Are you free people, or are you old women who will take orders from anyone?”
The men responded by gathering behind André and their sheikh, like a silent, menacing barricade.
“Shame on you for breaking your backs for the infidel!” He spat on the ground in front of André, then pulled his horse around and galloped away through the orange grove, followed by his band.
After the excitement had died down and André had made sure that the young agitators were not still lurking nearby, he and Emily rode to a high plateau half an hour up the mountain.
From there, Emily could see across a sparse forest of cedars up to where the Oued Igrounzar and Oued Zeltene merged. Qasr el Bahia, looking massive and unassailable with its mighty donjons and sturdy gate, was situated between the two areas. One of the two towers was accessible only by means of retractable ladders. André had shown her the small rooms with the sleeping mats, torches, water, and several days’ worth of provisions. He kept his saffron inventory hidden in the tower in a locked trunk behind some sacks of grain and rolled-up rugs. In the event attackers were to break through the gate, the residents had a nearly impregnable shelter in the towers.
Terraced fields lay spread out around Qasr el Bahia, some a reddish brown, where the saffron bulbs still lay submerged in the soil, and some golden, where the ripe barley stood ready for harvesting. In between were dots of green from the orange, lemon, pomegranate, and olive trees. Emily spotted the new field in the east. From here, the men clearing it looked like tiny ants.
“I was afraid,” Emily confessed.
André, who had just finished tying the horses to a jujube tree, turned around. “Of those pretend warriors? I’ve known almost all of them since they were born. I put their leader in his place my very first day on the estate. I’m not afraid of them, and you shouldn’t be either.”
“I’m not afraid for myself, Father, but for you, my brother, and all the others.”
He came over and took her in his arms. She nestled up to him and he led her to a sunny spot. “We can sit and talk here,” he suggested and moved a few stones out of the way with the tip of his boot. “We’ve been living under the same roof for half a year now, but we have many years to catch up on, n’est-ce pas?”
They sat down on the warm, dry ground. He had retrieved two oranges from his saddlebag; now he peeled them and handed her one. “Are you happy at Qasr el Bahia, or are you homesick for Mogador?”
Emily’s first—and longing—thought was of Sabri. Her second—and sorrowful—was of her mother. She furrowed her brow, just the way Sibylla always did. “No, I’m not homesick. I would like to stay with you for a while longer.”
“I’m happy to hear that. Of course, you can stay as long as you like.” He took a segment of orange and chewed it.
Emily leaned her head back and watched a pair of falcons circling high above them in the sky. Did Sabri think of her? Did he miss her? It had been so long since they had last seen each other that their encounter seemed like a dream. She stifled a sigh. There was a sharp-edged rock lying on the ground not far from her. She used it to scratch an image of the falcon pair in the dirt with just a few strokes. Next, she sketched the horses standing calmly under the jujube tree, chasing away flies with their tails. And finally, as though her hand had a mind of its own, Sabri’s eyes appeared in the dust, looking just the way they had that day at the maristan: warm and loving.
“Who is that?” André leaned forward and looked at the sketch with interest.
“Nobody.” She hastily wiped away the image with her hand.
“Is that the young man you’re in love with? Does your mother know about him?”
She hesitated and then shook her head. “Father, please don’t be angry, but I’d prefer not to talk about it.”
“You’ve done a lot of painting since you came here. I’m very pleased that there are now such beautiful pictures of Qasr el Bahia. They will tell our story even after you and I are long gone. That’s why it would be a great shame if you gave up your chance to study at the Royal Academy of Arts. Just think how few women are considered good enough to study at this renowned academy.”
Emily did not answer but scribbled a wavy line on the ground.
André continued, “I myself have certainly not seen much art or many famous paintings, but I know you well enough to see that you’re not happy unless you can paint or draw.”
She pouted. “Are you chastising me, Father?”
He laughed. “A bit. I just wish for you not to waste such talent.”
“I was looking forward to London,” Emily admitted hesitantly. “Not just the academy but meeting the rest of my family. My brothers and Victoria have told me so much—I think life there must be quite different. But I’m not allowed to travel alone like John or Thomas. Mother would accompany me and that—”
“I too insist that a young lady not travel alone from one continent to another. So, you see, you will have no alternative but to reconcile with your mother. Why don’t you let me take a letter to her the next time I go to Mogador?” He winked encouragingly, but she dropped her gaze and said nothing.
“Emily, are you determined to be upset with your mother forever?” he asked her gently. “She asked about you when I was in Mogador. She misses you.”
“I miss her too,” she admitted reluctantly. “I don’t want to be angry with Mother forever. But if it hadn’t been for Victoria, she would have kept the truth from me until this day. She has lied to me and to you, and has kept us from each other for so many years!”
“That’s not entirely true. I saw you whenever I was in Mogador. And on your birthdays, I brought you presents.”
“That’s not the same,” Emily replied stubbornly and regarded him warily from the side.