Mezhgan’s mother listened, doubtful, but willing to try anything to lift the dishonor her doe-eyed daughter had brought upon their family. Mezhgan’s father hadn’t left the house in three weeks, too ashamed to meet his neighbors’ eyes. It made for a very tense home.
The mother made the long walk back to her home, stopping on the way and buying a spool of red wool thread from the seamstress. By the light of an oil lantern, her knobby fingers knotted the thread. She whispered a prayer over it too, for good measure. When she’d carried out all the directions, she returned to her living room and clutched a cup of freshly steeped tea in her hands. She held the cup to her chin, letting the steam mist her skin. Her husband did not lift his head to ask where she’d been, a small blessing.
Either this magic would work, she thought, or her daughter had made a fool out of her for a second time.
ELEVEN DAYS LATER, MEZHGAN’S MOTHER RETURNED TO THE prison.
Mezhgan’s fingers gripped the metal rings of the fence so tightly they turned white. Her cellmates watched from enough distance to feign privacy.
Though they could not hear a single word, they could see the excitement pass through the latticework of the fence. Mezhgan’s head fell back in elation. She clapped her hands once, twice, three times and twirled on her foot. She drew her shoulders up and covered her grin with her cupped hands. Her mother wiped away a tear of joy.
“Either her head lice spread to the rest of her body or she’s gotten some good news,” Latifa quipped. She stole a sidelong glance at Zeba.
Nafisa could not take her eyes off Mezhgan. Her buoyant mood was infectious, even across the dismal prison yard.
Mezhgan came running over, the ends of her lilac head scarf dancing in the breeze. Zeba braced herself. Until this very moment, she still harbored doubts as to what she could do on her own; it had been so many years since she’d last toyed with Gulnaz’s craft.
“Zeba-jan, you did it! His mother’s come to ask for my hand in marriage! I knew he loved me. You unlocked my naseeb. How can I possibly thank you for bringing my darling to me?”
Mezhgan, with her hands clasped together, shot Latifa a coy look.
“Latifa, you were wrong to poke fun! Zeba’s spell worked faster and cost far less than buying off a hardheaded judge!”
Mezhgan crouched down to kiss Zeba’s hands in gratitude. Zeba’s eyes fluttered in surprise, and she pulled her hands away.
“That’s not necessary,” she said abruptly. “I’m glad the boy’s family has come around. For you and your baby.”
Mezhgan’s eyes twinkled. From behind the fence, her mother called her name and waved her over. She shook her head at her daughter’s giddiness. There was much that still needed to happen. There had to be a formal nikkah. Until her daughter was married in the eyes of Islam, she should not rejoice. A premature celebration would only invite misfortune.
Mezhgan wasted no time. Her mother left the prison that day with even stricter instructions directed, this time, by her own daughter. She needed a proper wedding dress. The clothes she’d been wearing in the prison would not do for such a momentous occasion. When she and her lover, Haroon, visited the judge to update him on the status of their relationship, she pushed closer to him, whispering honey-coated words of devotion.
“I knew we were meant to be together. I’ve been thinking of nothing but you,” she cooed. “And now we need to plan our engagement.”
Her shackled fiancé was sent off with a list of supplies needed to mark this momentous occasion behind bars. He would need to relay the list to his parents, who should deliver the items as promptly as possible so that Mezhgan could make plans. She handed him a folded sheet of notebook paper that bore her childish scrawclass="underline" chocolates for the guests, sugared almonds, pink lipstick, and money to her mother for any other expenses.
Mezhgan walked with the confidence of a woman adorned in gold. Latifa looked bored. The promise of a nikkah took all the sport out of their banter.
Haroon’s mother and father, along with Mezhgan’s anxious parents, arrived on the day the young couple were to sign their nikkah. They nodded at one another briefly but said nothing else. Mezhgan’s father was still too angry and ashamed to string more than two words together, and her mother was afraid she would be confronted for what she’d done with the thread and the feather. She pulled at her sleeves, a nervous twitch.
The parents, bride, and groom were led into a small courtroom with three rows of wooden chairs. The groom, wearing white pantaloons and a tunic, was escorted by two guards with distinctly unfestive handguns on their hips. Mezhgan, early in her second trimester, beamed in a silver brocade head scarf and a billowy emerald dress that she’d cinched at her still delicate waist. The hem of the dress fell to her calves and covered her ivory, satin pantaloons. She smiled coyly at her new fiancé. Her reluctant mother-in-law turned away. She’d agreed to this arrangement but only because she’d not wanted her son to serve the remaining eighteen months of his sentence.
How disappointed she was to have raised a fool for a son.
The young couple had their handcuffs released so that they could sign their names on the nikkah contract that bound him and Mezhgan as husband and wife. It was the most important piece of paper Mezhgan had ever touched, and she took her time penning the curves and dashes of her name. Before he was led away by the guards, Mezhgan dreamily exclaimed they would have a beautiful wedding party once they were released. He shook his head and sighed with amusement. Her eyebrows shot up as he was led away. His dainty bride had not been joking.
IN THE PRISON, NEWS OF MEZHGAN’S NIKKAH BROUGHT A BUZZ OF activity. It passed from cell to cell in whispers, nods, and exaggerated stories. Some scoffed, some giggled, and some were just a bit fearful. But each and every woman behind those locked doors wondered if the rumors of a sorceress among them might just be true. Soon they were lining up at the dented door of Zeba’s cell, their newly found hope stoking the wildfire she’d set off within the cold walls of Chil Mahtab.
CHAPTER 21
GULNAZ STOOD BY THE FRONT DOOR OF THE PRISON AND watched as a young man slid his legs out of the backseat of a taxi, struggling to keep the strap of a bag on his shoulder as he slipped the driver a few bills.
He was in a rush to get to the prison — as if his hurrying would save something more than a moment of time. He pushed the taxi door closed and raised his hand in thanks to the driver who had already turned his attention back to the radio dial.
Oh, Rafi. Did you find a lawyer to defend your sister or a playmate for your sons?
Gulnaz wished she’d paid closer attention to Rafi when he was younger. He meant well, but his efforts were childish.
The man was walking quickly, his messenger bag bouncing playfully against his hip. He checked his watch, and Gulnaz sighed with renewed disappointment.
Time is not the problem, child. Time is all we have.
This was the baby-faced lawyer Zeba had told her about — the one whose expensive cologne and crisp clothes could not mask the scent of inexperience. Zeba had been right to hang her head.
When he reached the shaded entrance, Gulnaz took a step forward. Yusuf put a hand on his chest and nodded in respectful greeting. He reached for the door’s handle.
“You are my daughter’s lawyer,” Gulnaz declared.