“A few months ago, a sage came from Salonika. He brought his wisdom, and he also brought along this song"
When Bilhah walks into the scribes’ quarters the next morning, Yasemin hands her a small piece of parchment.
“Read it and begin to devise a response,” she orders.
Bilhah looks up at the woman. Her skin is smooth and youthful, but she has crow’s feet around her eyes. How long has she lived here? She looks down at the parchment. The text is in Arabic.
She glances up again, tries to read the expression on Yasemin’s face, but it is expressionless. The room is suddenly hot. Yasemin’s shadow lies across the parchment, and even when Bilhah looks down, she feels the woman’s presence, a warmth, the faintest sound of her breathing in and out, the rustle of her silk dress as she stands, waiting for Bilhah’s response.
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