Page 6 of Wild Card (The Trident Trilogy 3)

Sarajevo, Bosnia, 1994

“Nejra! You are not going to work outside this house,” Sayid said. “And that is my final word.”

Since their parents died almost two years ago, Sayid had been trying desperately to get control of his little sister. He thought their father had always been too tolerant of her independence. Now, at twenty-four, Nejra’s strong will was almost unmanageable.

“Sayid,” Nejra said, looking at him from under her eyelashes like she always did when she wanted to get her way. “I know you are only doing your duty as my brother and the head of this household. I respect your position, but now that you can no longer find work, we need the money.”

Sayid shook his head. He knew she was right. When the war started, the jobs dried up quickly. Very few people in Sarajevo had any money to spend. Most of the shops were barely operating anymore.

“If you would just marry Yusef,” Sayid sighed, “he would take care of you. I can fend for myself.”

Nejra flung her shoulders back as she did when she was going to take a firm stand. “I will never marry Yusef. I have told you that repeatedly. I would rather stay single the rest of my life.”

From the corner of the room, Amar smiled discreetly. He had been Sayid’s best friend since they were three years old. He had been in love with Nejra for almost that long. He knew Sayid didn’t see him as a suitable match. Amar’s family was poor. Sayid wanted Nejra to have an easy life. Yusef’s family was rich, but that’s where his qualifications ended. Yusef wasn’t nearly smart enough for a woman as brilliant as Nejra.

“Nejra,” Sayid said, rubbing his face in frustration. “You know that’s who Papa wanted you to marry. You’ve been matched with him since you were five.”

“Papa wanted me to marry him until Yusef grew up into an ignorant, unfeeling man. Before Papa died, he promised me that I would not have to marry him.”

Their parents died in one of the first bombings of the siege. Sayid and Nejra were at work when it happened. When they arrived home that afternoon, they found their Aunt Azayiz stationed in front of what used to be their house. The bombing took out the front wall—next to where their parents sat in the front room with Azayiz’s husband. They all died instantly when the wall collapsed on them.

“Well if you’re not going to marry him, you have to marry someone,” Sayid said. “And please don’t tell me again that you’re waiting to find a tender man. I’ve told you before I don’t know what that means.”

“And I keep telling you I will know him when I meet him and I haven’t met him yet.”

Amar sat up quickly—his heart sinking to his toes.

“If you want to marry a gentle person, then marry Amar,” Sayid said, flinging his arms in Amar’s general direction. “He has never even been able to kill a bug.”

Nejra smiled at Amar. “Amar and I are best friends, but he doesn’t want to marry me any more than I want to marry him.”

Amar forced a smile onto his face. She was completely wrong about that, but he knew he had to win her over gradually.

“And besides,” Nejra continued, “gentle and tender are two different things. Gentle is more of a physical attribute, but tender is something that inhabits someone to their most inner parts. I would welcome gentle, but tender is vital to me.”

Sayid shook his head. “I will never forgive Azayiz for giving you that book of poetry. If you show me where it is, I will happily burn it for you.”

“I must have lost it,” Nejra said, not breaking her stare with him as she sat down at the table.

After the bombing, they moved in with Azayiz. Sayid knew having her in the same household only made Nejra’s independence worse. Azayiz and her husband had traveled extensively, including spending a significant amount of time in the United States. Every time they returned from a trip, Azayiz became more westernized and Nejra right along with her.

“Nejra, men are supposed to be tough, not tender,” Sayid said, sitting down across from her.

“They can be both,” she said, crossing her arms again. “Now about my job, I am supposed to start tomorrow.”

Sayid rubbed his hands over his face nervously. “And what does this company do again?”

“They are exporters. They need someone good with languages to help them communicate with all of the different countries of our new region. I speak five languages. I am valuable to them and they will pay me well.”

Nejra hated lying to him, but he wouldn’t let her work if he knew what she was really going to be doing. One of their father’s old friends had contacted her two weeks ago. He said the United States government was sending in envoys to help put an end to the war. They needed a translator who spoke Bosnian, Serbian, Croatian, and English. He knew she spoke all of those languages, in addition to Urdu. She had agreed without even telling her aunt the truth.

“But I don’t understand why you will be living there.” Sayid knew he would give into her like he always did, but he was holding out hope that she would change her mind. “Why can’t you come home at night?”

“We are going to be working late into the evening. You know I can’t be out past curfew. There is a barracks just for women. We will report to a woman and have no contact with the men. I will probably be safer there than I am walking the streets in this neighborhood.”

Actually, her father’s friend told her she would be working almost entirely with men. He specifically asked her if she would be comfortable with that. Honestly, she didn’t know if she would. It frightened and excited her all at the same time.

“And how long will you be there?” Sayid said quietly.

“Only a few weeks, a month at the very most.” Nejra smiled at him. She knew she had won.

“You have my blessing on one condition,” Sayid said, looking at her sternly. “When the war is over, you will marry immediately.”

She smiled and nodded her head obediently. “I promise.”

As she got up to walk into the kitchen, she tingled with excitement. It was the first time she felt really alive since the war started.

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