The old woman nodded and smiled. ‘You may pay me with your smile—it is all that I ask. For one so beautiful should not be sad. Listen to Abizah, for she knows these things. Soon you will find your happiness.’ And in the next instant she was waving them away, as if they were keeping her from other customers, of which there were none. ‘Now, you who could be King, be away on your business, and thank you,’ she said, bowing, as if he’d just done her the favour of her life. ‘Thank you for stopping at my shop.’
‘She is a generous woman,’ Rafiq said to Suleman, and he smiled indulgently as they continued along the path.
‘Abizah is Marrash’s wise woman. Her eyes are not so good, as she says, yet still she sees things.’
‘What kind of things?’ asked Sera.
‘The future, some say.’ And then he shrugged. ‘But others believe she speaks nothing but nonsense. Sometimes it can be one and the same. Come this way; the factory is waiting for us.’
The future? Rafiq wondered. Or nonsense?
Why had she addressed him as ‘you who could be King’? Did she mean if not for Kareef? It seemed a strange way to refer to him.
But not half as strange as it had felt when she had called Sera his wife. Even after his correction still she’d persisted, half the time speaking in riddles. No wonder some said she spoke nonsense!
Sera put a hand to her throat, where the tiny stones of the choker lay cool and smooth against her flesh. She was still trembling, although whether from the words of the old woman or as a result of Rafiq’s sensual touch and the fan of his warm breath against her throat, she wasn’t sure.
Why should she feel so much now, when she had felt nothing for so long? Why had feelings come back to life, turning everything into colour instead of black and white?
And why had the old woman assumed she was Rafiq’s wife? They were travelling together, it was true, and Rafiq might not be as well known to the Qusanis as his brother Kareef. But she had persisted even after Rafiq’s gentle attempt to correct her. And what had she meant about Sera being the Sheikha’s companion ‘for now’?
Despite the warmth of the day, Sera shivered as she followed their guide, haunted by Abizah’s words, trying to make sense of them. How did the old woman know she’d not been happy for a long time? Had she found it written on her face, or guessed it from the black robes she favoured? But how could she have known when she was nearly blind?
Whatever, the encounter with the old woman had shaken her, and the magnitude of the gift she’d bestowed upon her was unsettling. Even though of polished emerald chips rather than cut stones, the necklace was such a beautiful thing, the craftsmanship superb. How could she ever repay her?
In a momentary pause in their guide’s monologue, she touched a hand to Rafiq’s arm. ‘There must be something we can do to repay her. There must be.’ And Rafiq’s eyes turned from what had looked like shock at her touch to understanding, and without his saying a word she somehow knew he understood.
The path had widened to a courtyard, and a squat, long building that seemed to disappear into the very mountain peak behind, its timber door knotted and pitted with age. Suleman stood before it, his hand on the latch.
‘Welcome,’ he said, smiling broadly, ‘to our Aladdin’s Cave.’ And then he bowed theatrically and pushed open the door.
Sera gasped as she entered the long, surprisingly cool room, as an explosion of colour greeted her: jewel colours in bolts stacked high on shelves, more bolts lined up to attention on the floor like soldiers, all adorned with glittering gems in patterns reminiscent of starbursts or flowers or patterned swirls, sparkling where the light caught them. It was an endless array of colour—wherever she looked an endless source of delight.
Tucked into one corner of the vast room, a small display had been set up. Inadequate. really, given the extent of the range, but there was a bed, with covers and drapes and cushions, all aimed to show how the fabrics could be used. And alongside was set a trio of dummies, wearing gowns fashioned from the lightest fabric. The colours were intense, in ruby-red and sunset-gold and peacock-blue, the fabrics diaphanous, gossamer-thin, the emerald chips blazing upon them as if they were alive.
They were superb.
Rafiq was no less impressed. In truth, he’d expected a few bolts of fabric, some of it failing to live up to the sample his mother had shown him, because surely they would have sent their best to the Sheikha. But, looking at the vast selection around him, Rafiq wondered how anyone could have chosen the best.
He walked around the room, testing a sample of fabric here and there, admiring the handiwork, feeling the difference in the weights. He knew little of fabric, preferring to leave the finer details to his buyers’ expertise, but he did know from the sales reports that anything of this quality would be snapped up in a heartbeat. Curtains, cushions, soft furnishings—even without the benefit of the mocked-up display, he could see the applications would be vast.