“Looking back at him was a man who was battered and broken.And alive, for the first time in his life.”

“Better this way, what remained of his battered sensibilities told him. He was no good for her, anyway. She didn’t understand him. She didn’t understand that he was cursed. And, selfish as he was, he’d rather she hate him than he hate himself any more than he was already going to. Any more than he already did.”

“This man was no servant. She looked up at him in acute agitation and knew: this man was now her master.”

“He squinted at her. He recalled the tears in her eyes that had not fallen into her teacup. No, it wasn’t a revelation. Not even to him. Yet, this was the same woman who had stolen a camel right out from under the Anti-Zionist army’s nose. She’d taken his hand, thrown herself down a sand dune on a dare, and then beaten him back up it. She’d glared at him and refused to part from his side. A coward? “Never,” he said again.”

“A hand stole around her mouth, silencing her, then his lips parting her tumbled hair: “The walls have ears.”She blinked, and for the first time, looked around. A thin beam of light beneath what may have been a door. That was all. When he released her, she endeavored to match his own, barely audible tone. “Do the walls understand English?”

“Just say, dakhilak.”Without hesitation, “Dakhilak.”He nodded. Her accent was getting no better. “Now, you can never take it back.”“Well, what does it mean? Thank you?”She should have asked sooner. He didn’t turn to meet the gaze he felt on him, his voice full of sand, his stomach sick. “It gives me charge of your life.”

“She’d said she loved him. She'd put that impossible, unimaginably beautiful gift in his hands and he’d thrown it back at her. To save her. To save himself.”