Page 22 of Mistaken

“You never met with any of the elementals from Santa Fe?” he inquired as he led her outside.

She shook her head. “No, I never had any reason to. Or at least, when groups from Los Alamos went there to talk to the djinn for one reason or another, I wasn’t included. You’re my first,” she added, still smiling.

The old protest rose to his mind —I am not precisely a djinn— but he of course did not utter the words aloud. Doing so would have required far too many explanations. Better for her to think he was one of the elementals she already had some knowledge of, even if he might be one with an odd preference for completely hiding his person.

A wave of a hand summoned a handsome wrought-iron patio set, and another called into being an enormous sun sail that stretched across half the courtyard, sheltering them from the sun overhead, which had only grown warmer as the day progressed. Not exactly hot yet, but he knew that sitting out there with absolutely no shielding would have become uncomfortable soon enough.

Sarah blinked, although she didn’t say anything. In fact, her expression turned almost wistful, and he wondered if she was thinking about how much easier life was for the djinn, who could summon just about anything they might need.

Well, it was easier for them in some ways, he supposed.

However, he also remained silent as he seated himself and she followed suit. If they had been dining out the way mortals used to, then this would have been the time when a server approached them to take their orders — or at least, Abdul assumed that was what should have happened. Since he had never interacted with human society the way so many djinn had over the centuries, he couldn’t say for sure.

“Iced tea?” he asked. “Or perhaps lemonade or water?”

“Tea,” Sarah responded immediately.

As that was also his preferred drink for his noontime meal, he summoned a large pitcher for them to share, along with a set of tall glasses. He poured some for her and then filled his own glass, and she murmured a thank-you.

“What would you like?” he inquired. She hadn’t eaten very much for breakfast, although he couldn’t say whether such behavior was typical of her or whether she didn’t have much of an appetite due to being locked up in that suite.

He’d expected her to make a specific request the way she had the night before, when she’d asked for pepperoni pizza. However, she surprised him by asking, “What are you having?”

Because it was a bright, warm day, he’d already decided to have some sort of salad. When he told her that, she nodded.

“That sounds good. I’d like a salad as well.”

Of course, he hadn’t told her what kind of salad, but decided that something he’d had once, with mixed greens and chunks of chicken and bleu cheese and cranberries and candied walnuts, seemed like it would be a good choice. Immediately, a pair of identical salads appeared in front of them, and Sarah gave an approving nod.

“This looks really good. I haven’t had cranberries like this since….”

The words trailed off, but he knew what she was trying to say. Although certain canned and dried foods had survived the Dying, the human survivors in Los Alamos probably would have already consumed whatever stores they had on hand, and cranberries were nothing they could grow themselves, not with the terrain here so very different from the bogs of New England.

“I am glad I could provide something you like,” he said, knowing it would probably be better not to acknowledge the reason why Sarah would not have eaten anything similar to this meal for a very long time.

She also seemed to realize they’d been treading on delicate ground, because she only nodded and reached for her fork, then speared some chicken and dried cranberries before popping them in her mouth.

Afterward, they ate quietly enough, for which he was glad. He knew that djinn and mortals alike often conversed during their meals, making them last much longer than they needed to, but it appeared Sarah understood he had no need for idle chatter.

When she was done, though, she set down her fork and looked up at him. “Thank you,” she said, and something in the timbre of her voice seemed to tell him she was expressing gratitude for more than merely the salad.

Was she also thankful for the way he’d allowed her to leave her room today?

Perhaps. Since it seemed she had no immediate plans to flee, he thought it better to leave matters as they were. This way, she could come out to the courtyard or the pond when she wished and perhaps would not feel quite so much like a prisoner.

Even if that was exactly what she was.

Chapter8

Dinner that nightwas similarly low-key, so much so that Sarah wondered if she was actually getting used to being here with Abdul. They didn’t eat in the courtyard that evening, but rather in the dining room, and they had chicken again, only this time not in a salad, but some of the best cacciatore she’d ever had. He hadn’t consulted her about the food, instead seeming to take her comment about not having any real dietary restrictions to heart.

It had been another mostly silent meal, though, with her only making a few comments about the dish and the wine that accompanied it, and then shutting up when the djinn didn’t seem inclined to talk. Awkward for sure, but she survived, and thanked him afterward before returning to her room.

Again, she shut the door but didn’t lock it. She’d already heard from the other survivors in Los Alamos that door locks didn’t matter much to djinn…and neither did most other human inventions.

If Abdul wanted to get into her room, he could.

She didn’t get that vibe from him at all, though. If her door was going to be locked, it was because he’d done it to keep her in and not vice versa.

---