She still had no place in his life, no future. They were nothing like equals. Jafar was a Berber prince, an English nobleman, while her bourgeois blood was common red—its only claim to blue being her aristocratic French grandmother. She was also tainted by the smell of the shop.
And then there was the issue of their disparate backgrounds. Jafar might have spent a great part of his youth in England, but by his own admission, he hadn't fit in. She wouldn't fit in here either, not in this Berber culture, with its different religion and vastly different customs.
No, they had no future together. If she thought about it at all, it was only to scold herself for being a fool. Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine that Jafar would want an Englishwoman for his wife. Not with his aversion to all things European. Not with his tribe already questioning his motives. He would be suspected of siding with the enemy were he even to consider marriage to her.
Besides, Zohra had told her Jafar would wed one of his own kind. When Alysson subtly introduced the subject one afternoon in the kitchens, Tahar only confirmed it.
"Yes, the lord must take a noblewoman to wife. It is his duty."
"A Berber noblewoman?"
"Or Arab."
"Not English?"
Tahar looked surprised at the question. "The lord would not wed a foreign woman."
"But Jafar's mother was a foreigner, was she not? His father married her.''
Tahar shrugged fatalistically. "That was before the war."
Alysson heard the finality in that simple statement with an aching heart. Before the war.
Of course the war had changed everything. It was the very reason Jafar had disavowed his English heritage. No, he wouldn't want a foreign wife. Foreigners were brutal murderers, the conquerors of his beloved homeland. And even if he could bring himself to overlook that overwhelming obstacle, Alysson reflected, she wouldn't be the woman he chose. Culturally he despised everything she represented, but personally, the marks against her were nearly as formidable. She was not at all like the women of Barbary. She could never be submissive and docile, toward Jafar or any other man. She had been too independent and strong- willed for far too long.
No, Jafar might desire her for the moment, but he couldn't possibly come to love her. He would use her body, if she let him, and that would be the end of it.
If she let him. She didn't know if she could bring herself to stay as his mistress, even if she were asked. But so far Jafar hadn't given her the slightest indication that he was considering such a longer-term relationship with her, scandalous or otherwise.
She had begun her third week at Jafar's mountain fortress when Zohra again gave a dance performance for the company. Alysson endured the evening, but was grateful that she had worn her most attractive outfit. Tahar had sewn for her a new djellaba of rich yellow velvet, and the garment gave her a confidence she wasn't aware she was lacking.
Early the following morning, however, even that confidence was shattered. Alysson was strolling in the courtyard while Jafar held audience in his reception hall. There was no sign of the young greyhound who had befriended her. When she came across a wizened old Berber woman sitting on the ground chanting and waving an amulet, Alysson withdrew a discreet distance to give the woman some privacy. Settling herself on one of the marble benches, she turned her face up to the warm sunshine.
Mahmoud found her moments later and startled her with his sudden exclamation. "Come away, lallah! Please, you must come away at once!"
Abruptly opening her eyes, Alysson stared at him in bewilderment. His face was pale beneath the vicious red scar and he was wringing his hands in what seemed to be fear. "The old woman," he babbled, "she is a kahina! A witch! She commands the djinns—the evil spirits—and will cast a spell on you! You must not stay here!"
Alysson cast a dubious glance across the courtyard at the harmless-looking old woman. The Berbers were highly superstitious, she knew, but she herself did not believe in such nonsense.
Her hesitation sent Mahmoud into a frenzy. In his distress, he totally forgot his place as a servant and grabbed Alysson's hand, giving it a fierce tug as he implored her again to leave.
Just then Zohra stepped from the shadows of a fig tree, her eyes gleaming with malevolence as she fixed them on Mahmoud. "Get you gone!" she demanded in Berber, pointing at the boy.
Alysson leaped to her feet to defend him, but to her surprise, before she could say a word, Mahmoud turned and fled as fast as his limp would allow.
He had not abandoned her, however. Instead he had run to fetch his master. Zohra had only time to turn her virulent gaze on Alysson before Jafar came striding out of the house, his robes swirling fiercely around his ankles as he bore down on them. The harsh fury on his face was visible even at a distance.
When he reached them, the kahina stopped chanting and Zohra took an involuntary step backward.
"What is the meaning of this?" Jafar asked the Berber beauty, his low, controlled voice vibrating with rage.
With her limited command of the Berber language, Alysson understood only one word in three of the subsequent discussion, but she comprehended enough to realize what had happened: Zohra had arrang
ed for the Berber sorceress to cast a spell on the "infidel Englishwoman."
Mahmoud, who had returned to the scene, edged closer to Alysson. "I came in time," he whispered anxiously, "before the kahina could appeal to the evil spirits and cast rbat on you—the great curse. The lord will prevent her, praise Allah." Despite his faith, however, Mahmoud placed his thin crippled body between Alysson and the witch.
At the protective gesture by the young boy, Alysson's heart swelled. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, both in gratitude and because she wanted him to hush so she could try to follow the stormy conversation.