Outside, an oriole was warbling. Someone was pulling a cart; Mariam could hear the creaking of its hinges,
the bouncing and rattling of its iron wheels. There was the sound of gunfire not so far away, a single shot followed by three more, then nothing.
“I won't be your servant,” Mariam said. “I won't.” The girl flinched. “No. Of course not!”
You may be the palace malika and me a dehati, but I won't take orders from you.
You can complain to him and he can slit my throat, but I won't do it. Do you hear me? I won't be your servant.”
“No! I don't expect—” “And if you think you can use your looks to get rid of me, you're wrong.
I was here first. I won't be thrown out. I won't have you cast me out.”
“It's not what I want,” the girl said weakly. “And I see your wounds are healed up now.
So you can start doing your share of the work in this house—” The girl was nodding quickly.
Some of her tea spilled, but she didn't notice. “Yes, that's the other reason I came down, to thank you for taking care of me—”
“Well, I wouldn't have,” Mariam snapped. “I wouldn't have fed you and washed you and nursed you
if I'd known you were going to turn around and steal my husband.” “Steal—”
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