that she knew the jinn was a lie, that Jalil had told her that what Nana had was a disease with a name and that pills could make it better.
She might have asked Nana why she refused to see Jalil's doctors, as he had insisted she do, why she wouldn't take the pills he'd bought for her.
If she could articulate it, she might have said to Nana that she was tired of being an instrument, of being lied to, laid claim to, used.
That she was sick of Nana twisting the truths of their life and making her, Mariam, another of her grievances against the world.
You're afraid, Nana, she might have said. You're afraid that I might find the happiness you never had.
“And you don't want me to be happy. You don't want a good life for me. You're the one with the wretched heart.”
There was a lookout, on the edge of the clearing, where Mariam liked to go.
She sat there now, on dry, warm grass. Herat was visible from here, spread below her like a child's board game:
the Women's Garden to the north of the city, Char-suq Bazaar and the ruins of Alexander the Great's old citadel to the south.
She could make out the minarets in the distance, like the dusty fingers of giants,
and the streets that she imagined were milling with people, carts, mules.
She saw swallows swooping and circling overhead. She was envious of these birds.
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