As he approached, leading his camel, Dawud’s gaze was upon her face, her trembling hands. “Perhaps, Miss Anna, we should stay—”
“No.” She shook her head. “This is where I’ll die, Dawud. There’s no reason for you to stay. I’m not afraid to meet God alone.
But thank you for your kindness.”
He gave her a bow then, his expression again telling her he was uncertain what Allah had intended to teach him on this odd journey.
However, a true believer, he also accepted things that were beyond human understanding.
Mel gave her an indifferent nod. She was sure his mind was already on spending his money and how to get more than his share.
She prayed that Harry and Dawud kept one eye open on the return trip. Mel’s greed was greater than his brains.
They were faces, just passing, soon gone in the shimmering heat. Preparing for her vigil to await nightfall, she settled back down, the memoir on her lap. If her information was correct, the shift of the obelisk would have pushed up a second, much smaller marker a quarter mile away, on the other side of the tall dune. It would be the lever to the tomb opening, an engineering feat worthy of the admiration of ancient Egyptians. As soon as dusk approached, when she was certain her escort was well gone from here, she would make her way to the place she believed that marker to be.
Farida and Mason had possessed the courage and strength to grasp their dream. She would make that quarter mile. Farida was exactly as she’d described herself, a responsible daughter, exceptionally intelligent and valued by her father. She’d run her father’s household from a young age, after her mother’s death while bearing one of Farida’s siblings. It perhaps explained why Farida hadn’t been married off as young as other Bedouin girls were. But if she’d been dreaming, longing for more, it was not evident until that first journal entry. Of course, in her world such dreams were not indulged, and perhaps never would have been if her soul mate hadn’t stepped into her father’s tent.
Jess didn’t have the comfort of Dawud’s faith. God, if such a being existed, had abandoned them all long ago, but she’d experienced a taste of an illusory paradise in stolen moments with Farida. Perhaps that was the only Heaven that truly existed, what love and imagination could create, explaining why she’d clung to belief in the story so firmly.
She wanted to step into Farida’s body. She wanted not only to read about it, but to feel what she’d felt . . .
JOURNAL ENTRY 102, PAGE 45
Farida bint Asim
He has a way of looking at me. I might be cooking my dinner, or using some precious water to wash. Though I rarely hear his approach, I know he is there. I close my eyes and smile as he takes the cloth from my hand and passes it over my skin, his male eyes watching it trickle down my breasts, my stomach.
“Bathing is a woman’s job, my lord,” I tease him. “A handmaid’s task.”