Her dress was the color of a peacock’s feathers, blended together in an exotic and rich cotton. Narrow sleeves ended just below her elbow and the narrow waistline opened into a long, generous skirt that billowed as she walked. A panel of gold embroidery and small mirrors covered her budding chest. The regal stitching swirled from the shoulders to the cuffs, which were lined in a satin of the deepest emerald green. The dress was extravagant but, on some holidays, the murshid chose to spoil his daughter.
Gulnaz crossed the room, heads turning as she placed one foot in front of the other. Her dark hair fell gently against her shoulders, her eyes vibrant and striking. Gulnaz’s lips curled into a shy, barely noticeable smile. By the time she reached her table, Gulnaz had become acutely aware that her beauty was magnetic, unmatched, and, most important, powerful.
IN THE THREE WEEKS AFTER THE WEDDING, SAFATULLAH’S HOME was visited by a flood of callers, unusual even for the esteemed murshid. What was most peculiar was that it was women knocking on the gates and that they were asking to see the murshid’s wife. Gulnaz’s mother would push her amused daughter into the next room or out of the house while women showered her with platitudes.
Gulnaz would smile coyly from behind a closed door or with an ear pressed to the clay wall. She giggled at the flattery, the way the mothers lauded their sons’ good looks, intelligence, and sense of honor. Sometimes she would slip past the room just to tempt them with a glimpse. Why bother with magic when she could make grown women bend and jump just by showing a sliver of her face?
The suitors were plentiful and persistent. Gulnaz’s dark reputation was a thing of the past, a childish phase, a distraction to keep the suitors at bay. A few of Gulnaz’s aunts and cousins watched the wave of interest with suspicion. They explained the phenomenon in whispers and knowing glances: Gulnaz had bewitched the village.
Gulnaz became the most sought after young woman in town, and her parents felt compelled to wed her soon lest that desirability backfire. Surely, those who had been turned away would be disappointed, and spiteful tongues could make Gulnaz out to be a heartbreaker or a temptress.
Gulnaz’s mother spoke to her about the suitors. She described their families, the work each boy was able to do to provide for a family. Gulnaz would shrug her shoulders. She had little interest in a man who would come home with hands calloused by metalwork or one who aspired to follow in the devout footsteps of her father, the murshid. She scowled at the proposition of a boy who was intent on becoming an army general. She had no use for a man who liked to shout orders all day long.
Gulnaz’s mother grew impatient with her nay-saying. They had turned away too many families, and she was growing anxious.
The tailor’s family didn’t think they stood a chance. They were nowhere near as well-to-do as others in town. Their eldest son, a young man of twenty years, had been blessed with handsome features but was soft-spoken and didn’t know what to do with his hands when he wasn’t holding a needle and thread. His mother had come alone twice already. When she came with her son, Gulnaz went outside the house to steal a glance through the living room window. The boy’s mother had her back to the cinched lace curtains and didn’t see Gulnaz’s emerald irises peering curiously through the dust-spackled pane. Gulnaz’s mother, on the other hand, was duly horrified to see her daughter’s face in the glass. She refilled the teacups for her guests, praying that they wouldn’t turn their heads and spot the onlooker. The boy sat at an angle, staring appropriately at the carpet before him and appearing like the well-mannered young man his mother promised he would be.
He was actually fairly handsome, Gulnaz decided. She liked the softness in his voice and the way his fingers toyed with the teacup in his hands. He was gentle. He would not tell her what to be.
Look at me, Gulnaz willed. Let me see your eyes.
Gulnaz’s mother’s shoulders were stiff. She nodded her head politely as the boy’s mother spoke, though barely a word of what she was saying registered. She was preoccupied with how she would explain her daughter’s behavior should the tailor’s wife turn her head round.
Gulnaz pressed her fingertips to the glass.
Come on, now. Do you really want to be my husband for all our days? Let me see who you are.
The boy’s back straightened. His chin lifted slightly.
Gulnaz’s eyes widened.
Look this way. Here I am if you want to see me. Tell me you will treat me like a queen and I will nod my head and give myself to you.
Why was she doing this? He wasn’t the most handsome man to come courting. He was not the boldest or most accomplished, either. But she was taken by his demeanor and the patience it took to thread a needle, to measure fabric by the centimeter, to stitch a perfect hem. He was the type of man who would appreciate her. He would let Gulnaz be Gulnaz.
Gulnaz sighed. She needed to look into his eyes to know. She needed him to listen now if she were to believe he would listen any other day.
Am I what you want with your whole heart? Do you believe it’s our kismet to be man and wife? Look at me if we’re meant to be.
The man of thread was pulled by an invisible one that led to the window, to the unimaginably beautiful young woman beckoning him to prove his devotion. His eyes lifted from the carpet, his hands relaxed, and he looked over his mother’s shoulder.
Gulnaz gasped and put a hand over her mouth, as if she’d been speaking her bold thoughts out loud.
When he smiled, Gulnaz whirled away from the window and pressed her back to the wall of the house. Her breathing quickened as she inched back to the glass to peek in again. His eyes! They were as kind as Gulnaz had hoped, but they also shone with something Gulnaz couldn’t name, and Gulnaz had a weakness for mystery.
Gulnaz’s mother was wringing her hands and doing her best to keep the boy’s mother looking straight ahead. This behavior was unforgivable.
The boy’s eyes were again downcast, but there was a glimmer of mischief on his face.
Yes, Gulnaz thought. You, I accept. I will be your beloved, your fiancée, your jewel.
Within six months, the murshid’s daughter was engaged and married to a promising young tailor who would later prance out of her life irreverently, leaving her with two children and plenty of reasons to hate the world around her.
CHAPTER 17
ZEBA FELT THE HOLLOW ACHE IN HER STOMACH BUT COULDN’T bring herself to eat anything. Her cellmates had nudged her for breakfast and lunch, but she’d ignored them, barely grunting a reply to their concern. By this evening, they were indifferent. She was a grown woman and if she didn’t have enough sense to eat, they would gladly split her share.
Yusuf was young and inexperienced, she knew. He had noble intentions, the noblest intentions Zeba had ever seen, but intentions accomplished little in Afghanistan. Guns, money, power, pride — these were the currencies of this country. That glint in his eye the last time they’d spoken had only made him look pathetic to his client — like a child who’d spotted a toy in a minefield.
Zeba couldn’t save him. She could barely save herself.
She thought of her mother. The notorious Gulnaz. It was a full year ago that Gulnaz had come knocking on her door, her piercing eyes scanning their home. She told Zeba she’d sensed something was awry. She’d been having terrible dreams, images of the children rolling off the roof and falling to the ground, of Basir’s foot being run over by a car and Kareema being kidnapped by a caravan of kuchi nomads. She was waking up in the middle of the night with a terrible feeling.