"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.
Intersection, A3 and KT11, Province of Affrankon,
10 Rajab, 1533 AH (9 June, 2109)
It was early morning and, despite the season, quite chilly. The wind blew sometimes from the east, sometimes from the north. Wrapped in his janissary's field cloak, Hans shivered.
God, what a shitty world, he thought, as the five condemned writhed and struggled for breath on their crosses. They moaned now but seldom cried out. For this Hans gave full credit to the priest who spoke up, encouraging his charges to rejoice at their martyrdom and to bear up under their pain. They sang hymns, sometimes, when their strength allowed.
I should do as well, under the circumstances.
The boy, for he was still a boy, sat on a grassy slope, chewing his lip and watching the priest slowly expire. I'd help if I could, Hans thought.
"Boy? You . . . boy? What's your name?" the priest asked. His head lolled to one side with weakness. His steel-gray hair moved with the breeze.
"Hans, Father." He'd not forgotten how to address a priest, despite three years of indoctrination.
"You were . . . Catholic . . . Hans?"
"Yes, Father."
"Tell me how they convinced you to change?"
Hans opened his mouth to answer and then realized, I don't really know how. We were just all in pain and . . .
The boy poured out the story to the priest.
The priest laughed and, though the laugh was strained, it was still an amazing thing from a man dying on the cross. "Didn't you find it a little odd that they claim 'no compulsion in religion' and then compelled you and your friends?"
"I—" Hans changed the subject. "How did you end up here, Father?"
The priest laughed, then went into a fit of violent coughing. "I was sold out by another priest."
When he saw Hans' eyes go wide at that, the priest explained, "Many of the clergy like having the masters in charge, Hans. How else, after all, could they enforce support for the church among Catholics and Protestants? How else could they have the religious laws they believe in enforced, except by the will of the masters?
"What of your mother and father, Hans?" the priest asked, changing the subject. "Are they still Catholic?"