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Khatun’s terrace until we were out of view, then had climbed up a ladder to another level of roof and disappeared. I had stood there, gaping at the rickety ladder, at the space where I had last seen her. She had appeared again—above me.
“Hsst!
Up here!”
    I couldn’t go back. And I couldn’t stay up there all day, on the bare mud roof above the Khatun’s terrace. So I had followed, favoring my bad foot—gingerly setting it on the ladder’s narrow rungs, scooting it along ledges, walking around the gaps that Zaynab jumped over.
    But Zaynab didn’t seem to notice my crippled foot or consider that one misstep could plunge me to my death.
Don’t look down!
was all the advice she offered.
    What was I doing, following a crazy woman across this treacherous roof?
    But I thought of the Khatun and kept going.
    At last, as I was hauling myself up another ladder, a small, circular pavilion arose before me on a tiled rooftop terrace. The pavilion was made of yellow bricks, with a domed roof and a row of slender, arched windows all the way around. Nearby, flowering bushes and trees sprouted up from clay pots. Bird droppings speckled the floor, growing denser and denser toward the far end, where I saw three pigeon lofts—thatched mud huts shaped like cones. They were pierced with clusters of small round holes, with sticks poking out beneath. Pigeons peered out through the holes, perched on the sticks, preened on the loft roofs, and strutted on the low wall that edged the terrace. From within the lofts welled up the rich, peaceful, burbling sound of many contented birds.
    When I turned around, Zaynab was looking at me; she quickly averted her eyes. A pigeon sat on her shoulder, pecked at her gray hair. Her robes were mottled with telltale white streaks. “Would you . . .” Again she seemed shy. “Would you like a cup of sharbat?”
    It would have been rude to refuse. I followed her into the shade of the pavilion.
    The carpets, scattered about the floor, were faded and frayed and littered with feathers. White droppings splotched the tiles. It smelled musty. Of
bird.
Yet it was a fine room, with designs in green and brown tiles on the floor and in purple and blue on the high ceiling. Like earth and sky, I thought.
    Humming a tuneless tune, Zaynab poured water into a bowl and hastily scrubbed two clay cups. The washwater turned chalky white. Bird droppings in the cups? It seemed likely, because now two more pigeons flew in and joined the one pecking at Zaynab’s hair. I watched warily as she ladled sharbat from an earthenware jar. Still, she didn’t seem really
crazy
—except for the reckless jaunt across the roof and the birds on her shoulders and that imaginary bird she had talked to. Unless you counted terrible housekeeping as a sign of craziness. Which Auntie Chava probably would.
    Who
was
this Zaynab? I wondered. What did she do here? Why had she saved me from the Khatun? Or . . .
had
she saved me?
    â€œHere you go, my dear,” Zaynab said, handing me a cup of sharbat.
    My dear.
That was what she had called the imaginary bird. Still, the sharbat looked clean enough. I had half feared to find a feather floating in it—or worse. Sipping, I found that it was sweet and good.
    I smiled at Zaynab. “This is delicious,” I said. “Thank you.”
    She nodded, smiled, ducked her head, then quickly turned and scattered some seeds on the tile floor. The birds on her shoulders fluttered down and began pecking; four or five new pigeons sailed in through the windows and joined them. Zaynab sat staring at the pigeons, humming softly to herself. Abruptly, she broke off and looked at me.
    â€œDo you like views?” she asked.
    â€œViews?”
    â€œThe view,” she said. “Over there. We can look. If you want. You don’t have to unless you want to.”
    â€œI’d like to,” I said.
    We crossed to a window and silently looked