He lifted his hands in jest as though she were pointing a weapon at him, and they both had to laugh.
“I understand that you need some more time to forgive your mother,” he said finally. “She lied to you. But you should never forget that she had no choice. What would you have done in her place?”
“I don’t know,” Emily muttered.
André put his arm around her. “Understanding is at least a good beginning.”
She squeezed him. “Father?”
“Yes?”
“Did you love Mother?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, I did.”
Emily thought of Aynur, and of her sister, Malika, who was a mere six weeks younger than she.
“Then why did you . . . ?”
Her father’s face went blank, his eyes staring back into a time she did not know. She regretted having brought up the past.
“Please don’t be upset, Father. It’s none of my business.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mogador, October 1861
Firyal was dreaming that she was eating couscous. She had almost finished, but she was still hungry, so she scraped the bottom of the bowl impatiently with her spoon until the noise awakened her.
It took her a few seconds to realize she’d been dreaming. Then she became aware that the scraping sound had not stopped. She sat up in bed and listened. It was coming from the inner courtyard. She carefully slipped out of bed, tiptoed to the door, and peered around the door she always left ajar to let fresh air in.
The moon was high, full and round, and its silvery light illuminated the courtyard, the leaves on the olive tree, the swing hanging immobile from the sturdy branch, and the bronze hinges on the sundial that had been her master’s pride and joy. Directly in front of the foundation that the master had built, not ten yards away from Firyal, she saw something that made her hair stand on end.
A black shadow was crouched on the ground. At first it was perfectly still, then it suddenly teetered back and forth, up and down, before sinking onto the ground. All the while it whimpered so ghoulishly that Firyal’s heart almost stopped.
“A djinn!” she screamed. “A demon! God help this house!”
The shadow spun around and stared in Firyal’s direction. She slammed the door shut, locked it, and went to take refuge in bed. But she stumbled over a stool and cut open both knees. When she at last made it to her bed, she wrapped herself in the blanket, clutched the amulet she wore around her neck, and began to recite the Koran in a quivering voice: “There is no true god but God! The Ever-Living, the Eternal Master of all. Neither drowsiness nor sleep overtakes Him. His is all that is in the heavens and all that is on earth—”
There was rumbling, crashing, and noise throughout the house, and she again screamed in fear. The doors on the second floor, where the masters lived, were flung open, and footsteps echoed. Then Firyal heard her mistress’s voice.
“Thanks be to God! We’re saved!” she whispered and broke into tears.
“An evil spirit? Nonsense! There are neither good nor evil spirits!” John stood in front of Firyal’s room shaking his head. His hair rumpled, barefoot, and wearing a long white nightshirt, he almost looked like a ghost himself. Victoria stood behind him looking over his shoulder. She was holding a flickering lamp. Her long hair had come out from under her nightcap. Her eyes wide with fright, she watched Sibylla and Nadira as they sat next to Firyal on her bed and tried to calm her. The servant was sobbing loudly and, upstairs, Charlotte and Selwyn had awakened and were howling just as piercingly.
“I’m going to look after them,” Victoria said, and disappeared.
“Can you show me where you saw the ghost?” Sibylla asked Firyal. The servant only looked at her in horror and shook her head.
Sibylla placed her hand on her arm. “Have no fear. We’re here with you. No one is going to hurt you.”
“Yes, my lady.” Firyal rose and went to the door of her chamber. “There,” she said, pointing to the sundial. “That’s where he was.”
Sibylla stared at her. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, my lady.” Firyal nodded emphatically. “Over there by the sundial is where the demon was and where he performed his horrific dance.”
Sibylla stepped outside and squinted into the darkness. At first glance, the place looked the same as always. What if Firyal had just had a bad dream?
At that moment, the gatekeeper came around the corner, followed closely by the cook. “My lady, master, there was a burglar in the house. Someone broke in through the kitchen door. I found this on the floor.” Hamid showed Sibylla and John a crowbar.
“So it was a burglar, and he used this to break open the door!” John took the crowbar and turned it over in his hands. “Damn it all, what good are you?” he shouted at Hamid.
“Hamid’s chamber is on the other side of the house, next to the front door. He couldn’t have heard the burglar any more easily than we,” Sibylla said. “The burglar probably fled when Firyal screamed.” She was trying her best to appear calm, but she was deeply troubled by the incident. Nocturnal burglaries were infrequent in Mogador because the city gates were firmly bolted and carefully watched—although, she supposed, a determined burglar could easily slit the throats of the watchmen. “Don’t you find it strange that he went to the courtyard?” she asked her son. “Why didn’t he go after the valuables in the rooms?”
“That’s a good point,” John answered. “I’m going to look through everything with Hamid. Perhaps something is missing. I’ll send Victoria down with the children. It’s safer if you all stay together. You’ll be responsible for the women and children.” He pointed to the cook.
Sibylla went over to the sundial and looked at the ground with a furrowed brow. There was no doubt. Someone had begun to uncover parts of the foundation. But why? Something flashed in the moonlight. She kneeled down and discovered a small shovel that the intruder had left behind. As she looked at it, she realized that the intruder had been looking for something specific and had known exactly where to find it. She had the feeling of an icy hand brushing against her back, of falling into a bottomless abyss.
This cannot be, she thought. I’m the only one who knows what was buried here, and I have not told a soul. The person who buried the gold, the only other person aside from me who knows about it, is dead!
But the uprooted soil and forgotten shovel said otherwise. Sibylla scanned the garden, squinting into dark corners, up the wall to the flat roof, while a voice inside her insisted, How can you be so sure that Benjamin is dead? Did you see his body? Did you bury him?
She looked over at the small group of frightened people in front of Firyal’s chamber. She cared about these people. They were her family and she wanted to protect them from this unidentified danger that had crept into her house.