His accusations whipped like the wind through the crowd, fanning sparks into flames.

“Al-zaniya!” someone cried again. I ducked as if the word were a hurled
stone.

“It is no wonder that A’isha rhymes with fahisha—whore!” People laughed, and soon they began to chant: “A’isha—fahisha! A’isha— fahisha!” Muhammad steered me through the crush toward the mosque entrance. As if in a mosaic their faces swirled before me: the jowly Hamal and his pale wife Fazia-turned-Jamila, screaming and plum-colored; the town gossip, Umm Ayman, pursing her wrinkled lips; Abu Ramzi, the jeweler, flashing golden rings on his waving fists. I’d expected murmurs when I returned, and lifted eyebrows—but this? People who had known me all my life now wanted to tear me apart. And Safwan—I turned my head to look for him, but he had disappeared. As always.

Rude fingers yanked my hair. I cried out and slapped them away, and a stream of spittle landed on my arm. Muhammad set me on my feet and faced the mob, then raised his hands into the air. Silence fell like a shroud, muffling even the glares.

“A’isha needs to rest,” Muhammad said. His voice sounded as weary as
I felt. “Please return to your homes.”

He curled his arm around me and we ducked into the mosque. My sister-wives stood near the courtyard entrance, two and two. Sawdah rushed forward, ululating, enfolding me in her plumpness. She praised al-Lah for my safe return, then kissed her amulet to ward off the Evil Eye. Next came Hafsa, weeping, kissing my hands and face. She whispered,“I thought you were lost forever.” I didn’t tell her that she was nearly right. Umm Salama nodded, unsmiling, as if she feared her head might topple off her long stem of a neck. Zaynab slanted lusty eyes at Muhammad as though she and he were alone in the room.

But my husband’s concerns were only for me. When my stomach clenched again, slumping me in pain, he caught me and lifted me up as though I were filled with air. And in truth, I had little else left inside me. I floated in his arms to my apartment. He kicked open the door and carried me inside, then placed me on my feet again while he unrolled my bed. I leaned against the wall, grateful for the quiet—until Umar’s shout barged into the room, followed by the man himself.

“See how she shames al-Lah’s holy Prophet!” he cried. “Galloping through the center of town with her hands on another man and her hair waving like a harlot’s dress.”

“A harlot with vomit-stinking breath and hair like a bird’s nest?” I blurted.

“Please, Umar,” said Muhammad. “Can you not see that she is ill?”

“You indulge her.”

“I am happy to see her alive, praise al-Lah.” The love in my husband’s gaze made me blush. How close I’d come to betraying him with that trickster! Safwan had lured me with freedom, then tied my destiny to his desires. No different from any other man. Except, perhaps, Muhammad.

“Yaa habibati, what reward should I offer Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal for bringing you home safely to me?”

“One hundred lashes would be fitting,” Umar grumbled.

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