There was no rush to leave.
It was perfect.
Suleman led them out into the street again, and onto a narrow path that ran along a thin stream. Fed by a spring, Suleman told them, a gift from the gods. Instantly it felt cooler, the path lined with grasses and shaded by trees. There was a grove of orange trees too, the tang of citrus on the air.
The path led them past a tiny shop, selling everything from rugs to lace to knick-knacks, where an old woman sat in a chair in front, fanning her face. She broke into a big gappy smile when she saw Rafiq, swinging herself up onto her bowed legs.
‘Prince Rafiq,’ she cried, her voice frail and thin—and how she even saw him, let alone recognised him with the cataracts clouding her eyes and turning her lenses almost white, was a miracle. He went to greet her, and she pressed his hand between her bony, surprisingly strong hands. ‘Please, have something from my shop.’
Suleman stood behind them patiently, his fingers laced in front of him, while Sera could not resist looking closer at the table laden with trinkets set amongst tiny lamps and coffee pots. She picked up one of the lamps, the chips of green stuck to the brass twinkling in the dappled light.
‘This is beautiful,’ she told the woman. And then to Rafiq, ‘Your mother would love this.’
‘How much is it?’ he asked, reaching into his pockets.
‘Take it for the Sheikha!’ the old woman insisted, picking up another, larger and more resplendent in its decoration. ‘And one for Prince Kareef, to celebrate the upcoming celebrations—a gift from Abizah of Marrash.’
He wanted to argue the point—clearly the woman was scraping out an existence without giving away her stock—but she was already reaching for paper to wrap the gifts, pressing them into his hands when she was finished.
‘And now something for your beautiful wife…’ Her hand hovered over the table of wares.
Rafiq coughed. Sera at his side bowed her head, her face suddenly colouring. ‘Sera is the Sheikha’s companion,’ he corrected, as gently as he could.
‘Yes, yes,’ the old woman said, waving one hand and taking no notice. ‘For now, perhaps, yes. Aha!’ Her hand scooped up the prize—a choker Sera hadn’t noticed behind all the other trinkets, made up of clusters of the same green chips that had adorned the fabric she’d fetched for the Sheikha, the same green chips that shone on the tiny lamp, but these chips were threaded on gold thread, with trails of the tiny gems hanging from it in a wide V-shape. Sera gasped. It was divine. A work of art.
‘It is too much!’ Sera protested. ‘I cannot accept such a gift from you.’
The old woman brushed her concerns aside with a sweep of one hand. ‘Nonsense.’ She passed the necklace to Rafiq. ‘Put this on your wife. My eyes and fingers are not as good as once they were.’
He held the ends of the sparkling necklace in each hand, not even bothering to correct her this time, still rattled by her earlier words and not sure she would listen anyway. ‘Turn around,’ he told her, and saw Sera’s slight shake of her head, her dark eyes helpless, deep velvet pools. But dutifully she turned. He put his arms over her head, dropping the necklace onto the skin of her throat. There was a pulse beating there, urgent, bewitching, and he had the insane desire to press his mouth to it and feel her very life force beneath his lips.
As if she read his thoughts, he felt her breath hitch, her chest rising with it.
He drew back, enclosed the golden chain around her hair, fastened the closure.
He could have left it at that. Stepped away and let her free her hair from the circle of the chain. But he could not.
Instead he slid his hands under her heavy black hair, like silk in his hands as he lifted its weight, feeling the tremors slide through her as the backs of his fingers skimmed her neck.
And again he could have left it at that.
But still he could not walk away. Not until he had smoothed her hair down—hair that was a magnet for his fingers, hair that he wanted to bury his face in so he might drink in more of the scent of herbs and flowers.
The old woman handed him a mirror, and reluctantly he had no choice but to take it. ‘Take a look,’ he invited, his hand on Sera’s shoulder as she slowly turned. Against her golden skin the emerald chips winked and sparkled, the perfect foil for her dark eyes and black hair.
Colour, he realised. That was what she needed. Colour to accentuate her dark beauty, not bury it under so much black. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, not sure whether he should have said it looks beautiful, suddenly not certain which he meant.
Sera gasped when she looked in the mirror. ‘It is exquisite. But, please, you must let me pay for it.’