Caliphate

Honsvang, Province of Baya, 8 Rajab, 1533 AH

(7 June, 2109)

It was a long time driving over half-broken roads before the factor's auto pulled into the town of Honswang and up to a hotel. The building was, in some sense, grand, yet its walls were discolored and there was an air of incipient decay about it. Petra, used to the residue of decay all her young life, barely noticed.

"We'll wait here overnight," Latif said to Petra. "Tomorrow we can take a horse carriage to the top and your new home.

"Take care of the bags," he said to his driver.

"Yes, sir."

The hotel provided a suite: living room, bedroom and bath. Latif pointed to a couch and said, "That's for you." He looked her up and down and tsked wistfully. "Pity you've already begun to sprout. I'd have enjoyed you three or four years ago. Oh, well," he shrugged, "no matter. I can always send for something if I feel the need."

Sitting on the couch of the suite's living room, Petra felt so alone and so very, very lonely. Strange room, strange building . . . and Latif was a very strange man. And the future? She was afraid even to let herself think about a future.

"And my past is lost," she whispered to herself. "Or maybe not, not entirely."

She reached into the little bag she'd been allowed and withdrew her great-grandmother's journal. She didn't intend to read it but just to hold it to feel some of the connection with Besma and the life she'd grown used to. Whatever her intent, though, she opened the journal and discovered therein a letter. Recognizing Besma's handwriting, Petra laid her own head down on the letter for a moment before raising up again and taking it in hand to read:

My Beloved Petra:

I'd hoped you would never read this. If you are reading it, it can only be that I've failed to free you. For that, I am sorrier than I can say. I miss you already as if half my heart were torn out. I will not be whole until we are together again.

Fudail and Hanif and Ghalib were beaten a couple of days ago. Ishmael took me to the shop where we bought your clothes and I watched from an upstairs window. They suffered, but not enough. I will make them suffer more, if I can.

Fudail fears to be alone in the house with me. He should. Whether I can get at Hanif and Ghalib I cannot promise you. I do promise you Fudail's eyes and his manhood, whatever it may cost me to get them.

I have already begun to punish al Khalifa, whom I am certain was responsible for all this. My father, I am sure, senses this. He has moved to another room in the house and will not share his bed with her. I can only hope that she turns to some other so that I can denounce her and watch her be stoned to Hell. I am waiting for that day.

My father tried to buy you back. For this reason alone have I forgiven him.

Do not lose hope. I will never forget you. I will come for you, or send for you, when I can . . . though it take me all my life.

All my love, your sister,

Besma

By the time Petra had read the letter for the fourth time, many of the letters and words had been smudged with what poured from her eyes.