He frowned, uncertainly. He probably wasn’t used to his advances being rebuffed. But he soon recovered and turned to her with his usual charming smile.
“The mosque it is.”
The mosque—with its central dome, its minarets, from which the muezzin gave the call to prayer, and the arcades, which ran parallel to the direction of prayer toward Mecca—was stunning. And it moved Lucy in a way she hadn’t expected. Its exquisite decorations and sheer size was breathtaking. But the mosque, together with the places that Razeen took her to afterwards, did nothing to further her search for Maia.
However, she thought as she took off her sunglasses, there was one thing she’d learned. They were walking alongside the women’s market and when she turned toward the market, her gaze was met by a dozen stares. Lucy’s green eyes signaled her status as a ferenji, or foreigner. She’d learned that there were no other westerners here and she knew that there was no way the pale-skinned, red-haired Maia could be in the city without there being talk. And it was that talk that she needed to listen to. It should be easy enough. Razeen had commented that, despite his father’s isolationist policies, many people in his country knew a little English, and some a lot, with the increased opportunities to study abroad and cable TV. If only she could persuade Razeen to let her enter the market alone.
She slipped her sunglasses back on her nose and turned to Razeen.
“Can we stop here for a bit?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been thoughtless. You need refreshment.” Razeen signaled for a vendor to step forward with a glass of pomegranate juice and Lucy drank it thankfully.
“That was delicious, but I was wondering if we could enter the souk.”
Razeen frowned. “It’s the woman’s market. I can’t enter.”
“But—”
“I can’t let you go alone. Tomorrow, perhaps. I’ll organize for some women to accompany you.”
Lucy wracked her brain, trying to come up with a reason for her to go alone but before she could answer a palace official appeared and bowed before them.
“Your Majesty.”
Irritated by the public address, Razeen turned to the man with a scowl. “What is it?”
“Urgent business at the palace. Your senior advisor has requested you come immediately.”
Razeen’s face turned grim and he closed his eyes briefly as if trying to keep his irritation in check.
“I’m sorry, Lucy. I must leave you now but Assad will keep you company if you wish to look around further.”
“That would be great. There’s so much to see.”
“I will see you later.” His lips briefly curled into a smile but his eyes remained stern.
Razeen was soon lost amongst the crowds and Lucy wandered over to the women’s market. She turned to see an irritated Assad—obviously unimpressed with his demotion to look after a foreign visitor, and a woman at that—checking his cell phone for messages. Lucy took her chance and slipped away into the depth of the women’s market, where the guard wasn’t able to follow.
It was late afternoon and the souk was teeming with people after the post-lunch Qaylulah during which they rested. Lucy wove her way through the narrow aisles between stalls laden with produce of every variety. But it was the food stalls that drew her. She’d always loved food; the alchemy of turning raw ingredients into something special fascinated her. She stopped beside a spice stall where bags brimmed with spices the color of the sun—red, pale yellow, deep gold, burnished orange—some familiar and some completely unknown to her.
The woman, whose stall it was, caught her eye and spoke to her in rapid Arabic. Lucy smiled and shook her head. She dipped her head to smell a brilliant orange spice. Again the woman tried to speak to her and again, she shook her head. This time, however, the woman spoke to another much younger woman who had her back to them. She turned around and eyed Lucy directly.
“English?”
Surprised, Lucy nodded. “I’m from New Zealand. Do you speak English?”
“Yes. My friend’s brother lives in the US and sends her TV shows. I borrow them and we both learn English. My friend’s brother says I am good.”
“You are.”
The young woman smiled shyly. "My name is Aakifah."
"And mine, Lucy."
“L’see?”
Lucy grinned. “Yes.”
The other woman poured forth a stream of Arabic to Aakifah. “My mother asks if you buy her spices or just smell them?”
Lucy grinned at the mother. “I’d love to buy some but I don’t recognize them all and I’m not sure how they’re used. Could your mother tell me?”