broken dresser and peered through the sliver of light that shone between the attic’s closed shutters. From up here I could see three helmeted figures gathered below near the Santa María, pointing back and forth, furious for information.
I gasped through my nose and jumped away from the window. But my heel stuck on a raised floorboard that sent me flying sideways. As I crashed onto the floor, soup sloshed across my tunic and water sprayed across my cheek. And when I next looked up, I saw my bag had spit its contents across the floor.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I tore my bag from across my chest and threw it across the room. As I did, I smashed my elbow against the bedframe. “Goddamn it!” I shouted, clutching at my throbbing elbow. I gritted my teeth and cringed, hugging my shaking shoulders. And then I could hold it in no longer. I beat my head with my wrists and wept and howled, thinking of Serena and Diego, and cursing them for leaving me lost and scared and alone. And I cursed myself for crying, and God and the Malleus Maleficarum too. But most of all, I cursed Amir al-Katib. For getting my family into this mess, for being a traitor and a Moor. For everything.
When I was done, I slumped against the side of the bed and rubbed the tears from my face with the heel of my hand. Distantly I looked upon my few remaining possessions. Mylast piece of Serena’s bread had rolled into a pile of dust near the attic door. I brushed it clean and squeezed it in my hands before replacing it in my bag. I picked up my tray with the half-full pitcher and the remains of my soup and tossed it with a clatter onto the dresser.
Not far from the foot of the bed I found the Malleus Maleficarum scroll the priest had read to me in the monastery. Curious, I opened it. But the words “son of Amir al-Katib, the Moor” jumped out at me, and I flung the page from my hands as if it were on fire. Amir al-Katib — my father. No. No, I couldn’t deal with that information right now. First I would find that necklace that Diego had given me. It had to have landed around here somewhere.
I found it under the bed, a mess of glittering gold tangles that I unsnarled with my fingernails. In a fist I raised the necklace to eye level and watched drips of sunlight trickle down its chain. At the bottom of that chain shivered a golden charm in the shape similar to a teardrop or one of the flasks in our workshop back home. And like a flask, it appeared the charm could be opened. The top of the teardrop could be clicked back so you could put something inside it: a piece of a loved one’s hair, the relic of a saint, or even a drop of someone’s blood.
I touched the charm with the tips of my fingers, feeling the shallow scratches in its dull surface. Oddly enough, the charm felt warm to the touch — bizarrely warm, even on such a hot summer’s day.
A disturbing thought flew up in my mind. This was Amiral-Katib’s necklace — my father’s necklace. That man had touched this charm with his fingers, had worn this necklace around his own neck. What if this warmth I was feeling was his warmth, a warmth that had been trapped there for the last fourteen years?
It was an irrational thought, but all the same I let the chain jangle back to the floor. This necklace. It was proof. Amir al-Katib was no legend, no myth. He was my father — a Storyteller and a traitor and a Moor. I looked down with horror at the dark skin on the back of my hands. A Storyteller and a traitor and a Moor. Now I was all those things too.
I rubbed my face, stretching back the skin around my long Moorish nose. Every time I closed my eyes I saw a terrible bearded man, his face splattered with the blood of innocents. That was the way al-Katib looked the night he had abandoned me, after the Inquisition came and killed my mother. At least, that was the story al-Katib had told Diego — but who knew if that story was true? Everyone knew Amir al-Katib was a deft and savage warrior. In
I gasped through my nose and jumped away from the window. But my heel stuck on a raised floorboard that sent me flying sideways. As I crashed onto the floor, soup sloshed across my tunic and water sprayed across my cheek. And when I next looked up, I saw my bag had spit its contents across the floor.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I tore my bag from across my chest and threw it across the room. As I did, I smashed my elbow against the bedframe. “Goddamn it!” I shouted, clutching at my throbbing elbow. I gritted my teeth and cringed, hugging my shaking shoulders. And then I could hold it in no longer. I beat my head with my wrists and wept and howled, thinking of Serena and Diego, and cursing them for leaving me lost and scared and alone. And I cursed myself for crying, and God and the Malleus Maleficarum too. But most of all, I cursed Amir al-Katib. For getting my family into this mess, for being a traitor and a Moor. For everything.
When I was done, I slumped against the side of the bed and rubbed the tears from my face with the heel of my hand. Distantly I looked upon my few remaining possessions. Mylast piece of Serena’s bread had rolled into a pile of dust near the attic door. I brushed it clean and squeezed it in my hands before replacing it in my bag. I picked up my tray with the half-full pitcher and the remains of my soup and tossed it with a clatter onto the dresser.
Not far from the foot of the bed I found the Malleus Maleficarum scroll the priest had read to me in the monastery. Curious, I opened it. But the words “son of Amir al-Katib, the Moor” jumped out at me, and I flung the page from my hands as if it were on fire. Amir al-Katib — my father. No. No, I couldn’t deal with that information right now. First I would find that necklace that Diego had given me. It had to have landed around here somewhere.
I found it under the bed, a mess of glittering gold tangles that I unsnarled with my fingernails. In a fist I raised the necklace to eye level and watched drips of sunlight trickle down its chain. At the bottom of that chain shivered a golden charm in the shape similar to a teardrop or one of the flasks in our workshop back home. And like a flask, it appeared the charm could be opened. The top of the teardrop could be clicked back so you could put something inside it: a piece of a loved one’s hair, the relic of a saint, or even a drop of someone’s blood.
I touched the charm with the tips of my fingers, feeling the shallow scratches in its dull surface. Oddly enough, the charm felt warm to the touch — bizarrely warm, even on such a hot summer’s day.
A disturbing thought flew up in my mind. This was Amiral-Katib’s necklace — my father’s necklace. That man had touched this charm with his fingers, had worn this necklace around his own neck. What if this warmth I was feeling was his warmth, a warmth that had been trapped there for the last fourteen years?
It was an irrational thought, but all the same I let the chain jangle back to the floor. This necklace. It was proof. Amir al-Katib was no legend, no myth. He was my father — a Storyteller and a traitor and a Moor. I looked down with horror at the dark skin on the back of my hands. A Storyteller and a traitor and a Moor. Now I was all those things too.
I rubbed my face, stretching back the skin around my long Moorish nose. Every time I closed my eyes I saw a terrible bearded man, his face splattered with the blood of innocents. That was the way al-Katib looked the night he had abandoned me, after the Inquisition came and killed my mother. At least, that was the story al-Katib had told Diego — but who knew if that story was true? Everyone knew Amir al-Katib was a deft and savage warrior. In
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