“She will be the Matron of the Academy,” Julian said. “They say she hears the heartbeat of a disease before a doctor even touches the patient. She is the soul of this operation.”
The village held its breath. Malik, Zainab’s father, crawled from the shadows of his shed, his eyes wild with greed. “Take it!” he shrieked, his voice a pathetic reed. “Take the gold! We can go back to the estate! We can be kings again!”
Zainab didn’t look at her father. She didn’t even acknowledge his existence. She reached out and found Yusha’s hand, her fingers interlacing with his.
“We are not the people who lived in that city,” Zainab said to the Governor. “That version of us died in the fire and the darkness. If we go, we don’t go as ‘restored’ elites. We go as the beggars who learned how to see.”
“I accept your terms,” Julian said, a small, genuine smile breaking his stony facade.
The departure was not a grand parade. They took only their herbs, their silver instruments, and the memories of the hut.
As the carriage climbed the ridge toward the city, Zainab felt the air change. The scent of the river faded, replaced by the heavy, complex odor of stone, smoke, and humanity.
“Are you afraid?” Yusha whispered, pulling the furs around her.
