Author's Preface
Eid al-Fitr came to the settlement with the dawn — the festival marking the end of a long month of fasting and spiritual cleansing. By old tradition, people wore their finest clothes that day, exchanged gifts, and went from tent to tent visiting family and neighbors, strengthening bonds that a month of prayer and patience had already deepened. Laughter, music, and the smell of festive food drifted over the whole settlement from early morning.
By midday, guests had begun arriving — not just from the neighboring tents, but from distant lands, drawn by the generosity and reputation of the celebration Mansur's family had put on.
On one of those festive days, a palanquin came to a halt outside the Sayyid's tent — richly decorated, adorned with gold thread and fine carving unlike anything Halima had seen before. A curious crowd gathered around it instantly.
The curtain lifted, and a woman stepped out, so strikingly beautiful that Halima couldn't help but stare. Dark eyes framed by thick lashes held the confidence of someone used to being admired. Her dress, a deep shade of purple embroidered with gold thread and tiny pearls, fit her with a deliberate elegance that suggested something beyond wealth: exquisite taste. Her silk veil, draped with meticulous elegance, was woven with delicate gold thread that caught the light with every movement.
What a beauty, Halima thought, unable to look away.
The woman approached Amina and greeted her with a graceful, practiced bow. Amina welcomed her warmly, and the two fell into an animated conversation, their voices dropping low. Everything about the guest — the tilt of her head, the way she held her hands — carried the effortless grace of a noble upbringing.
Faris walked over to Halima, who'd been watching from a distance.
"Her name's Hayat," he said, following her gaze. "Pretty name for a pretty woman, isn't it?"
"Hayat," Halima repeated, trying the name out.
"Be careful with her," Faris added, quieter now, the usual lightness gone from his voice.
Halima turned to him, surprised. "Why?"
"She's cunning and full of intrigue," he said quietly. "Just like her father."
Halima frowned but didn't want to believe him. In all the months she'd spent here — caught up in family, lessons with Zoraida, time with Yahya, endless household chores — she hadn't made a single real friend. Not one woman her age she could just talk to, laugh with, share small nonsense with. The thought of finding that in this radiant, self-assured woman was too tempting to give up over someone else's warning.
"And since when do you bother giving me advice?" she asked, a little challenge in her voice.
Faris went still for a second, looking at her like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or feel sorry for her. In the end he said nothing more, just shook his head and walked off, leaving Halima alone with her own hopeful expectations of this new acquaintance.
Halima stepped into the tent and was introduced to Hayat properly.
"Her mother, Safiya, and I were friends," Amina explained, looking at her guest with real warmth. "Sadly, her mother passed away when Hayat was still just a child. Safiya's tribe lived close by. When I was pregnant with Yahya, her mother was carrying Hayat too, almost to the same day. We'd been close since we were girls ourselves, but once we were pregnant together, we got even closer. We used to trade everything we learned about raising a child."
Hayat smiled, and the conversation between her and Amina rolled on — lively, full of shared memories, names Halima didn't recognize, stories from years long past. The two women were so absorbed in each other that neither noticed Halima sitting quietly to the side for a while before she got up and slipped out of the tent.
She went back to her own tent, feeling a small, familiar sting — that particular sense of being invisible in a room.
Memories rose up on their own, of her mother looking straight through her the same way, absorbed in someone or something else. But Halima caught herself. This wasn't the same thing. Amina hadn't ignored her on purpose — she'd simply missed her old friend, and a daughter she'd known since infancy, someone she probably hadn't seen in far too long.
Get it together, she told herself firmly. These past few months she'd gotten used to being indulged — by her parents, by her husband — and now she was catching herself ready to feel hurt over nothing, like a spoiled child. Don't be like that.
She laughed quietly at herself, surprised at how fast, how completely, she'd gotten used to that kind of attention.
To clear her head, she decided to go to the market — with Darim, of course. Her father and Yahya both insisted she never go anywhere without an escort.
Darim walked beside her, quiet and watchful, and Halima found herself thinking, not for the first time, that he reminded her of a knight out of some old Earth legend — someone for whom loyalty to his line wasn't just words, but the whole point of existing. But he had dark red hair, dark eyes, and warm dark-brown skin. His appearance immediately gave away his Eastern heritage.
Lately she'd picked up a new habit — decorating the tent she shared with Yahya, adding a warmth it hadn't had before. Yahya himself, used to a warrior's plain simplicity, had never much cared about decoration — he'd have slept just as easily on bare rugs as among cushions. But Halima wanted to build a real home, not just a place to sleep.
At the bazaar, she got stuck, as usual, at a stall selling dishware — clay and wood, but painted and finished with such care that you could match a piece to any corner of a room. She sorted through bowls and plates, picturing how they'd look in their tent, while Darim waited patiently off to the side.
By the time she finally headed to the family tent for the midday meal, she was carrying another bundle of purchases.
Mansur noticed them and smiled warmly.
"There's rare dishware in our storeroom," he said. "Take whatever you like from it."
"Thank you, Father," she said sincerely, settling in at the table.
Faris eyed the new bundle and raised an eyebrow. "Bought out the whole market again?" he said, teasing, taking his seat. Then, turning to his parents, he added, half-scolding: "Somebody needs to stop spoiling her, honestly."
"I never had a daughter," Mansur said warmly, not looking up from his food. "I don't know what it's like, raising one. But it seems like daughters are just meant to be spoiled."
Amina nodded, fully agreeing with her husband.
Faris just sighed quietly to himself, silently thanking the Almighty that their family was wealthy. If his brother had been a poor man, Halima would have left him without a shirt on his back.