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  Of course I’m not allowed into the compound because I am a man, but a young boy, probably the midwife’s son or nephew, comes out with the midwife and sets a small bench down for her to sit upon so that she can see to my wound.

  “It is a very small wound to warrant such a long journey. I cannot imagine this was outside the expertise of the royal healers,” she says. Her voice is deep as a man’s but with twice the music of any woman I’ve met. There’s a shrewd twinkle in her eye, but the rest of her face remains neutral.

  I have my reply ready when I see the girl step out of the compound, a deep indigo Adire cloth wrap covering her from chest to ankle, copper coins winking from the ends of her braids.

  “I… uh…”

  “Motashakr awi, Khala Monifa,” the girl says to the midwife as her gaze darts my way, once, I think. I hope.

  “Afwan, my girl. If the cough becomes worse, you come to me,” the midwife replies, then adds, “Tayo will walk with you as you head home.”

  The girl shakes her head. “No, no. I have many stops to make. I am trying to find that honey to sweeten Iyin’s tea.”

  “I insist,” the midwife urges.

  “But I cannot pay you what is owed for such a kindness,” the girl whispers, trying desperately to keep her voice low enough that I cannot hear. I pretend to be preoccupied with the pain in my hand, which has almost completely disappeared.

  The midwife shakes her head and grips both the girl’s’ hands in hers. The girl bends down. Now I cannot hear the rest of the exchange, and before I have a chance to react, she’s walking down the street with the boy in tow. I follow them at a distance. I’m not even that discreet about it,

  The midwife doesn’t try to call me back.

  When the girl stops to buy spices, I pause at the opposite stall and pretend to haggle over sandals. When she stops for incense, I fall back a bit and purchase some sweet and spicy kelewele and nearly burn the skin off the roof of my mouth in the process.

  “Everyone can see you are following her,” the man jokes as he peels more of the blackened fruit and drops it in the oil.

  “Following who? I am on official business.”

  He wants to draw me into a conversation, but as I said, I am on business. She is my business. He’s right, though: I am not good at blending in. When she turns a corner on a busy street, she and the boy weave so quickly in and around the stalls, I lose them. It’s clear this is their market and I’m just a visitor.

  The whole endeavor is silly. I know this. Father has already set up meetings with the noblemen of the local mosque to inquire about several girls who are eligible for marriage and willing to travel, or at least be sent home to await my return from the pilgrimage. There is no need for me to meet the girl until nearly all the details have been set.

  This is my father’s plan, so he can keep himself busy. I am acting like a spoiled child. But this is the last chance I will get to indulge myself in the beauty and poetry of life. I walk a bit farther into the crowd, unsure of exactly where I am, and am caught off guard by the slave auction clogging the path. The host has hired musicians and servers to hand out sweetmeats, as if the whole affair is a festival instead of a horror show.

  I’ve finally caught up with her. She whips her head to the side and catches me off guard.

  “Why are you following me?” she asks feverishly. “No, no. Don’t look at me. I can’t be seen talking to you,” she adds in lilting Bambara. The boy serving as her escort places himself between us and hurls his gaze up at me with the ferocity of a true warrior. I respect it. He would defend her if need be.

  “How did you know I spoke Bambara?” I ask, curious.

  “Your accent. We had a slave girl in our compound who was from Bamako. It was not hard to figure it out. Again, why are you following me?”

  “I never admitted to such a thing,” I say.

  “You don’t have to admit your crimes to be guilty,” she says, a bite remaining in her tone.

  “I have never committed a crime in my life. I—”

  My mind draws a blank. I never considered that she might confront me. My plan always had me on the side of pursuit. And then I laugh.

  “What is so funny?” she asks.

  “Your boldness. I had planned to follow you from the midwife, find out what you liked, where you lived, maybe even your name, and then I would surprise you with a gift of dates or that honey you’ve been looking for.”

  “H-how?” she stutters, and breaks her own rule to look over at me. She quickly directs her gaze toward the auction. “Does that usually work on the other little birds in the market?

  “What is this business of birds? Is it an insult?” I ask.

  “They feed on the scraps thrown to them. Birds are beautiful and useless until they are eaten by larger prey,” she says with ease. As if she’s used this line to describe other girls before.

  “Well, that is an insult. And, no, in that case I do not consider you a little bird, nor do I spend time with useless people. I don’t consider people useless. Every person has value.”

  “Of course they do—this auction proves it,” she says, and juts her chin toward the boy being sold.

  “Not like that. Isn’t there somewhere else we could talk?” I ask without shame.

  “No,” she says quietly but firmly.

  I look behind us, and the crowd has filled in in such a way that it’s almost impossible to make a discreet retreat.

  “I could invite your family to the sultan’s feast as my guest,” I say.

  “A common soldier feasts with the sultan?” she laughs, and even though it is at my expense, I instantly love the sound, like wind chimes just before a storm.

  “Would you believe that I am not really a soldier?” I say. “I might dress like this to make it easier to move about in a strange city.”

  “If you’re not a soldier, I’m not a slave girl,” she says sarcastically.

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. The ring on her finger, the expert twists in her hair smack of nobility. She cannot fool me; I know wealth when I see it. I’ve made myself an expert in concealing it every day. The slave boy, thin and obviously unused to a lot of attention, is nearly shivering as potential buyers take him in.

  “He has a mother somewhere. A father. Were they unfortunate casualties of war, or did they sell him because they could not feed themselves? What life awaits him?” she asks, her voice much quieter than before and laced with concern.

  I fight the urge to look at her. “No one knows.”

  “His new master knows, because he will be the one to choose it for him,” she says tightly, and then draws in a long breath as if to say something else, but stops. It’s several moments later that she speaks again. “The lane is opening. I will ask you once more: Why are you following me?” She sounds like an irritated mother chastising her child.

  “I want… I want to get to know you.”

  “Do you wish to sell me something?”

  “Does that happen often? No. I have nothing to sell,” I reply.

  “When will you be leaving, you and the other soldiers and noblemen? How long will we know each other?” she asks. I don’t miss the disconnect in her voice. She’s already written me off. This has to have happened to her before. She is too beautiful not to be approached by men who promise her the world and leave every wish completely unfulfilled. She’s too smart to be tricked by witty banter and a sly smile.

  I was willing to lie, cheat, and bribe my way to her door, but she has asked an honest question and I have to give her an honest answer. She knows that whatever my intentions are, they must be brief, and what kind of girl gets involved with a man, a foreign man for that matter, who she knows will be gone before the rains begin? Tayo, less inclined with each passing minute to forgive my intrusion on their walk, presses close to her side and glares at me.

  “Unfortunately, our time will be short,” I say with all the joy leached from my endeavor. I realize too late that this was a fool’s errand. My fa
ther was right, as he most often is. She’s quiet for so long I think she might not speak at all.

  “Good. It’s gotten late, and I have an inkling where to find my lemon-scented honey. I will go to buy some tomorrow as soon as the market opens. If you can find the merchant, you will see me again,” she says matter-of-factly.

  I’m too shocked to ask questions, and I don’t have the opportunity. She and the boy slip through the crowd like river eels.

  And now the game begins.

  I turn to the nearest three people and ask them all. “Law samaht, where can I find lemon-scented honey?”

  14 Somewhere in Maryland, 1924

  FAYARD

  I WOKE UP ENERGIZED. I dreamed about the girl. I dreamed of searching for her. And I have to admit Uncle Max was right—I have a habit of chasing a girl or two—but this is different, and the dream seals it. Now I’m on a mission. I thought I was doing better than expected when I went to the kitchen early to get the doctor and his fine daughter breakfast. I piled the delivery cart with fresh cantaloupe, orange juice, those powdered ginger cookies they only set out for important people, hot coffee, tea, bacon, eggs, and two toasted New York bagels that somebody had tucked away in the larder where they thought nobody would find them. I draped the cart in linen and had a hell of a time moving from one train car to the next. The walkways are slim and you have to push the cart through the dining car, which is jam-packed with two-seater tables, then between the cars, opening the door from the one you’re leaving and into the one you’re getting on so you can lift the cart into the new car without spilling anything or waking anyone up.

  More than one early riser in the berths asked how much breakfast in bed cost, and even tried to bribe me. I told them to take it up with their conductor after I lied about special services reserved for VIP passengers only.

  I barely got any sleep, and my muscles ached something terrible when I rolled out of bed, still in my uniform. Thank God I was thinking ahead and paid the telegrapher at the Philly station to get a wire to New York and ask for the Clearing House numbers before we even left the station. I know I promised Uncle Max I was done with all that, but only a fool leaves himself with just one pot of gold. I should be able to pick up the numbers right after ten in Arlington. As long as no more than two people hit, and most likely nobody will, I’m good.

  The cart rattles as I wheel it into the doctor’s private car. I’m afraid that I’ll ruin the effect of it all if I wake them up before I get the table set, but I don’t have to worry too long, ’cause I see them both, fully dressed at not even six fifteen in the morning like a couple of seabirds looking for an early catch. The girl’s eyes are red and puffy, and I can see the tracks of salty tears down her dark cheeks as she gazes out the window. Bright green fields stretch out like an ocean on the other side of the glass, and the sun lights up her face like that’s its only job. Her father sits opposite her, head pressed forward, hands busy writing letters. He’s already got a few addressed and stacked on the end of the table. She blinks wet eyelashes up at me and my heart nearly stops.

  “Don’t just stand there—the food is getting cold,” the doctor complains.

  “Yes, sir,” I reply.

  I get to work and fumble with the items on the cart now that it’s not an empty table, but rather one already set with people. The girl pulls the book into her lap, and I have to work hard to catch the title etched into the top margin of the pages. Cane by Jean Toomer. I haven’t read it, but the name sounds familiar—maybe W. E. B Du Bois mentioned him in The Crisis. I’ll have to dig through the copies in my suitcase to find out. The only other option is to ask Uncle Max, who’s read everything, but that might tip him off.

  “I didn’t order all of this. I won’t be paying anything additional,” he says gruffly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  She doesn’t look up once as I set the table; her eyes travel across the lines of the novel like nothing else is going on around her. It takes all I have not to pray that the soft lift and fall of her bosom in her yellow dress will falter just enough for her to glance up and say thank you. I’d even take a snide remark, but I may as well be a part of the furniture as far as she’s concerned.

  “Are you enjoying your trip so far?” I ask.

  The doctor rustles his newspaper but doesn’t answer.

  “I see you’re traveling to Atlanta. Visiting family? Vacation?”

  This time the doctor folds his paper and places it in his lap. He gives me a pointed look. “No.”

  “No?” It sounds more like a reprimand than an answer to my question, and I stop myself from placing the tin of sugar cubes on the table.

  “No, we are not visiting family. We are not on vacation to the Deep South. Are you quite done?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “Are you new?” he adds.

  “As a matter of fact, sir, this is my second day on the job,” I say as brightly as possible. He slaps his hand on the table and points a stubby finger at the girl.

  “I knew it! We’ve been pawned off to the least of them. They have no intention of making this right. As soon as we get to Atlanta, I’ll wire Graham Perry. He’s just received his juris doctorate from Northwestern. I intend to sue.”

  “Uh, well, please let me know if I can be of any assistance,” I say.

  A sound escapes his throat, as if he is trying to hold back a laugh. “With the suit?” he asks with a small smile.

  “Uh, no, sir, with the rest of your stay.”

  The smile is replaced with a scowl as he clears his throat and begins buttering the top half of a bagel. The girl sits motionless, save her eyes, which continue to flit left to right as she reads.

  “Would you like me to bring something more to your liking, miss?” I ask.

  The girl looks up as if to reply, but before she can say a word the doctor says, “This will do us just fine. She’ll have a bit of fruit.”

  Like a puppet, she closes her book and places the bowl of fruit in front of herself. She stabs a large cube of cantaloupe with a fork and stuffs it into her mouth, all the while staring at her father as she strains to chew it without spitting it all over the tablecloth. Despite her efforts, her cheeks bulge and juice drips down her chin. One delicious drop slips down her neck and into her cleavage. I have to turn my head to keep myself from doing something dangerous. I’ve never wanted to transform into fruit before.

  The directive is so quiet and icy I barely register his voice. “Go to your room.”

  She picks up a cloth napkin and spits the fruit into her palm before dropping it onto the table.

  “Gladly,” she purrs, and squeezes by me to get to her door. She’s a big girl, and we’re nearly chest to chest as she makes her way past. I can smell the fruit on her breath as she breezes by.

  It’s not until I hear the click of her thin compartment door that I think to move again. At least I know this. She likes books. She doesn’t like cantaloupe.

  15 Columbia, South Carolina, Present Day

  TAMAR

  THE AIR FRESHENER IN THE bathroom is set on a timer, so I’m caught off guard when it practically squirts in my face. Cantaloupe. I nearly gag.

  I don’t know anything about auras, but I do believe in energy, and Aabidah’s energy is off when I step out into the airport corridor.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and swallows hard, getting ready to lie. “Nothing. Ready?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say, and scrutinize her as she flags down an airline attendant so we can get a golf cart to take us through security. It takes longer than I thought to get someone to stop, so I use her suitcase as a chair. It’s utilitarian, chrome, without any frills or distinctions other than the two combination locks on the top and bottom. You wouldn’t be able to tell it from any other soulless businessman’s case if it weren’t for a huge Hello Kitty luggage tag. She’s in a kimono riding in the cockpit of a cartoon airplane. It’s super cute and completely different from my sister’s style. Eve
n now, knowing that we’ll have to drag ourselves through more than one airport, she’s in a silk blouse, heels, and her perfectly applied signature liquid matte lipstick—a flaming red called Bawse Lady, from the Lip Bar.

  “Where’d you get this?” I ask, fingering the tag.

  “This guy I used to know.”

  I blink hard. Guy? I’ve never once seen or heard of my sister going on a date. Of course, she’ll tell me if someone is cute or not, but there’s never been anyone around long enough to start giving gifts. I really look at my sister, from her flawless nails to her twinkling diamond stud earrings. All that perfection takes work. Taking care of me and Mama took work. And she did it all without missing a step at school and at her job. If it weren’t for her, I’d be living with our Aunt Ophelia in West Columbia. Which wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it isn’t home. Despite a hurricane of bad fortune, I’ve never had to leave my home—until now. And it’s not the surgery or the poking and the prodding that scares me. It’s the uncertainty of living, dying, and that little gray space in between that Aabidah’s staking her hopes on.

  “Used to know?” I ask.

  “We don’t talk anymore.”

  “But he was special? I mean, he had to be for you to keep… this. Not really your style,” I tease. She doesn’t say anything, but there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips and a faraway look in her eye for just a moment. “What was his name?”

  “Kouki,” she says quietly, and draws in her lip, dreaming for just a moment, and then shakes her head. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Must be. I don’t remember you talking about any guys,” I say, slightly mad at her for keeping this information from me. I tell her everything.

  “There wasn’t anything to talk about. Like I said, he was just a guy I knew.”

  “I’m sure you’ve known lots of guys, but you’ve never accepted any gifts from any of them. Not even those Beats headphones from—what was his name?”

  “Barry.”

  “Barry the Barber. He took us to the fair and won those very expensive headphones that you, honestly, could have really used, and you gave them to the church for the Toys for Tots program. I thought you liked him. He thought you liked him.”