They had almost a year together before it all ended, but the pages Farida wrote during that time had passages Jessica thought could compete with the most renowned love stories, steeped in innocent, sensual joy . . .
He likes me to place grapes on my thighs. He eats them from my lap, one at a time, working his way to the fruit beneath, teasing me with his lips. And often, afterward, I bathe his feet as I did that day, only doing it as I wished to do it then, pressing my head to his knees in love and devotion . . .
He is stubborn, my lord Mason. Allah forgive me, but he can make me angry. A lifetime of never voicing my angers, and I could not stop myself from speaking sharply to him tonight. I feared I might be beaten, but he simply shouted back, and in time we were so amazed with ourselves, we laughed. When I asked him why he had not punished me, he told me that I would be, but he needed time to devise the proper rebuke. And Allah be merciful, he found one, such that I became determined to defy him at every possible opportunity . . .
As Jessica had expected, Dawud was nervous about the markings on the obelisk, warning of ancient curses and reprisals for disturbance. It was difficult to have more than two men maneuvering it in the hole anyway, so Harry and Mel had little complaint with the boy standing silently at her side to watch. It took rope, cursing and sweat, because the heavy stone had to be moved with care for its age and the preciseness of the relocation, but eventually it shifted to the right, fitting into the groove in a perfect lock.
Another band of tension loosened around her churning gut.
If she had only a handful of months to live, how would she use her time? It had been an essay question in her high school English class. Dear Mrs. Tams, nearly seventy, had understood the importance of such a question, but to a shiny seventeen-year-old, it had been merely another dull exercise until the final bell. Jess wished she’d been insightful enough to tuck her answer away, to pull it back out and laugh or despair. She couldn’t even remember what she’d written.
She did know that the true answer was elusive until it wasn’t a hypothetical. Because what determined the answer were the circumstances of one’s life when one found out death was imminent.
She had precious little time left. A couple days, maybe. Each time she lay down to sleep, the hold of oblivion grew stronger, more tantalizing. This effort might mean nothing to anyone but herself, but if every thread of the loom of the world was important, then she’d go out with hers strengthened by this one purpose. When some lucky archaeologist found the tomb a few centuries in the future, maybe they’d wonder about that second skeleton, curled up at the foot of Farida’s. There might even be three, for Lord Mason certainly would have had his bones interred there when he died, if at all possible.
“Thank you,” she said, coming out of her reverie to find the three men waiting out another of her far-too-frequent zoning trips.
“You’ve earned your reward.”
At dawn, they left, taking everything but one small packet of supplies. She was sorriest to see the camel go, for the white female had become a friend on the journey, her body giving Jess strength when her own failed her.
“Well, then.” Harry held out a hand, and Jess took it, managing the shake. “It’s been a most unusual journey, Miss Anna. I’m glad you found the marker from your story.”
“Me, too.” She nodded. “Travel safely. And please watch after Dawud.”
“I’ll look after the lad.” Holding her hand a moment longer, as if he might say more, he nodded, released her at last and turned. She stood, swaying on unsteady legs, watching them mount up, hearing the camel’s snort, the creak of gear and saddle adjustments.
They’d left her a small tent shelter, which would be useful until night fell again and the stars returned, showing her the rest of the way.