Page 4 of The Immortal's Trick
“We’re leaving.”
“I wanted to?—”
“We’re leaving.”
I don’t stop until the weight of the Greek’s stare fades, until I can no longer feel the pull of it on my skin. Only then do I breathe.
Nebet looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “They were just?—”
“They’re Greek.” My voice comes out harder than I mean.
But I don’t regret it. Greeks can’t be trusted.
Nebet opens her mouth, then closes it.
I don’t stop moving until the noise of the market dulls behind us. My pulse hammers.
My mother believed a Greek merchant’s promises. She abandoned her family, leaving us hollow, only returning when he left her.
I still remember how she looked, weeping in the street, a ghost of the woman she’d been.
My father took her back. I never understood how. I certainly never forgave her. Not even after she died from her broken heart less than a year later.
She made her choice. She chose a stranger over her family.
And I won’t let some beautiful stranger untether me. I willneverbe likeher.
2
The scentof lentils and stewed onions wafts through the house, warm and rich. Smoke from the cooking fire drifts out the windows in hazy trails as twilight sinks over our home. The sun’s burn fades into a soft orange glow that turns the fields gold, and for the first time in days, the house feels full.
Father is seated upright, his back cushioned by folded blankets, his face hollow but alert. His illness keeps him in bed more often than not—fevers, coughing fits, spells where he forgets what year it is—but tonight he looks more himself. Nebet and I sit on either side of him like bookends, each watching for any sign that he might tip over or slip into a coughing spell.
For now, though, he laughs.
The twins, Ruia and Sabaf, sit cross-legged at his feet, animated as they take turns describing some wild story about the neighbor boy, a black cat, and a supposedly cursed pomegranate tree. It’s nonsense, but it makes Father chuckle, and I don’t have the heart to stop them.
I don’t remember the last time I heard him laugh.
He reaches out with his good hand and tousles Sab’s hair. “You two should write plays. The theatre could use wild imaginations like yours.”
The boys beam, their joy contagious. Even Nebet smiles, her tired eyes bright for once.
I try to hold the moment close, tuck it somewhere safe. But I know better. Moments like these are short-lived in our house.
Sure enough, Father shifts, clearing his throat. “I trust the delivery went well today?”
My smile freezes as the image of the striking Greek flashes in my mind.
I glance at Nebet, but she’s already composing a polite reply. “It did,” she says quickly. “We saw Ani. He helped us unload the cart.”
“Howisthe Nsar boy? Still pining after our Eshe?” the older man chuckles, and Ruia and Sab join in. I stare at the wine pitcher.
Nebet shoots me a hesitant glance before replying, “Ani is well.”
Father nods. “Glad to hear it. He is a good boy from a good family.” Then his eyes land on me. “You would be lucky to have him.”
Still looking at the clay container, I scoff and say, “His father would not allow him to align himself with a destitute family.”
