no pretension about her at all.
Her magic had drawn him to her, but the rest of her was hardly less captivating. He allowed himself to make a soft sound, to feel the sudden force of her awareness. She looked up into his face with those eyes that were not precisely blue; that were the color of evening. She was quite an extraordinary beauty, and quite unconscious of it.
She smiled at him without affectation, and said in her softly accented Arabic, “Your library is wonderful.”
No recriminations; no impatience. She was a marvel among women. “I am glad that you find my books interesting,” he said. “If you will accept my apology—”
“My brother waylaid you,” she said. “He does that. I’ve been well entertained.”
“And edified, too, I should think,” he said, lifting the book that had been in her hands. It was a treatise on the gods and demons of Egypt.
“Every country’s spirits are different,” she said. “I wonder, do the people of the country change them, or do they shape the magic of a place?”
“I think a little of both,” he said. “You can see them, then?”
“Can’t all mages?”
“Not in our part of the world,” he said.
“Where I come from, magic is often called the Sight,” she said.
“Here it’s called the Art or the Craft.”
“A learned art or tricks of the mind?”
He inclined his head. “Spells of words and names, and invocations of powers.”
“Knowledge transmuted into power,” she said. “We’re less learned in my mother’s country. There’s lore, there’s wisdom, and some of it is very great, but there’s so much more to be seen and known and understood.”
“You have a hungry heart,” he said.
Her eyes sparkled; her cheeks dimpled. “Starving,” she said.
“And a stomach to match, I’m sure,” he said, “if you’ve been here since morning. Magical feasts, alas, give no nourishment, but there should be something earthly and edible in the kitchen.”
“I found a wheel of cheese and a jar of dates, and there was flour—one could make bread.”
“One could,” he agreed.
She was on her feet, standing not as tall as many of her countrywomen, but tall enough. He, who was often dwarfed in the company of Franks, found it pleasant to face one who was half a head shorter. She had a light free stride, unconstrained by idleness or indolence; her carriage was erect, her movements strong, so that one might in a quick glance have taken her for a boy—but on closer inspection, there was nothing masculine about her.
The kitchen was not too ill stocked, all things considered. Besides the cheese and the dates and the flour, there was a jar of honey and a loaf of sugar, a bag of onions and a box of herbs and spices, and a lidded basket that proved to contain a sack full of lentils. She sent him to the garden for a basket of roots and greens, which when he returned, went into the pot that wasalready bubbling on the new-lit hearth, sending off the beginnings of savory smell.
By the time the sun had set, they had a feast: lentil stew, and bread baked with cheese and herbs, and a cake made with dates and honey and a whisper of nutmeg and cinnamon and cloves. There was pure water from the spring in the garden, and a bit of lemon and honey to flavor it; and when they had had all of that, he brewed the treasure from the stores, kaffé ground thick and fine, sweet with sugar and pungent with cardamom.
She had not had that before; her eyes widened at the taste of it, and she grimaced, but not entirely in dislike. “This is decadent,” she said.
He laughed. “And the rest of it wasn’t?”
“That was simple,” she said.
“Simple magic. I didn’t know that kings’ daughters knew the arts of cookery.”
“They don’t,” she said. “I used to plague the cooks in my sister’s court in Sicily. They’d teach me this or that, to get me out of the way. I’m terrible when I want to learn something; I won’t let go.”
“Is that a
Her magic had drawn him to her, but the rest of her was hardly less captivating. He allowed himself to make a soft sound, to feel the sudden force of her awareness. She looked up into his face with those eyes that were not precisely blue; that were the color of evening. She was quite an extraordinary beauty, and quite unconscious of it.
She smiled at him without affectation, and said in her softly accented Arabic, “Your library is wonderful.”
No recriminations; no impatience. She was a marvel among women. “I am glad that you find my books interesting,” he said. “If you will accept my apology—”
“My brother waylaid you,” she said. “He does that. I’ve been well entertained.”
“And edified, too, I should think,” he said, lifting the book that had been in her hands. It was a treatise on the gods and demons of Egypt.
“Every country’s spirits are different,” she said. “I wonder, do the people of the country change them, or do they shape the magic of a place?”
“I think a little of both,” he said. “You can see them, then?”
“Can’t all mages?”
“Not in our part of the world,” he said.
“Where I come from, magic is often called the Sight,” she said.
“Here it’s called the Art or the Craft.”
“A learned art or tricks of the mind?”
He inclined his head. “Spells of words and names, and invocations of powers.”
“Knowledge transmuted into power,” she said. “We’re less learned in my mother’s country. There’s lore, there’s wisdom, and some of it is very great, but there’s so much more to be seen and known and understood.”
“You have a hungry heart,” he said.
Her eyes sparkled; her cheeks dimpled. “Starving,” she said.
“And a stomach to match, I’m sure,” he said, “if you’ve been here since morning. Magical feasts, alas, give no nourishment, but there should be something earthly and edible in the kitchen.”
“I found a wheel of cheese and a jar of dates, and there was flour—one could make bread.”
“One could,” he agreed.
She was on her feet, standing not as tall as many of her countrywomen, but tall enough. He, who was often dwarfed in the company of Franks, found it pleasant to face one who was half a head shorter. She had a light free stride, unconstrained by idleness or indolence; her carriage was erect, her movements strong, so that one might in a quick glance have taken her for a boy—but on closer inspection, there was nothing masculine about her.
The kitchen was not too ill stocked, all things considered. Besides the cheese and the dates and the flour, there was a jar of honey and a loaf of sugar, a bag of onions and a box of herbs and spices, and a lidded basket that proved to contain a sack full of lentils. She sent him to the garden for a basket of roots and greens, which when he returned, went into the pot that wasalready bubbling on the new-lit hearth, sending off the beginnings of savory smell.
By the time the sun had set, they had a feast: lentil stew, and bread baked with cheese and herbs, and a cake made with dates and honey and a whisper of nutmeg and cinnamon and cloves. There was pure water from the spring in the garden, and a bit of lemon and honey to flavor it; and when they had had all of that, he brewed the treasure from the stores, kaffé ground thick and fine, sweet with sugar and pungent with cardamom.
She had not had that before; her eyes widened at the taste of it, and she grimaced, but not entirely in dislike. “This is decadent,” she said.
He laughed. “And the rest of it wasn’t?”
“That was simple,” she said.
“Simple magic. I didn’t know that kings’ daughters knew the arts of cookery.”
“They don’t,” she said. “I used to plague the cooks in my sister’s court in Sicily. They’d teach me this or that, to get me out of the way. I’m terrible when I want to learn something; I won’t let go.”
“Is that a
Similar Books
