“But Safwan saved her life.”

“Apparently, Umar thinks I should have been left at the mercy of the jackals—or the Bedouins,” I said.

“At least you would die with your honor intact.”

“Nothing has happened to A’isha’s honor,” Muhammad said.

“Tell that to Hassan ibn Thabit,” Umar said. “I heard him moments ago reciting a damning poem about your wife and that womanizing soldier.”

A poem. No wonder the umma had snapped at my heels like a pack of dogs when I’d ridden into town. Hassan’s words could incite a crowd into frenzy nearly as quickly as Muhammad’s raised hand could quell it. But I refused to let Umar see me tremble. “Me, with Safwan? That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I’m the wife of al-Lah’s holy Prophet. Would I want a nobody like him?”

I felt Muhammad’s eyes watching me. Heat spread like flame under my skin. Had he heard the lie beneath my laughter?

Clipped steps rapped on the courtyard stones. A man’s hand flung open the door to my apartment. His silver ring flashed like a sword’s blade: Ali, related to Muhammad in three ways—cousin, foster-son, and son-inlaw— yet bitterly jealous of his love for me. Stabs of pain pierced my stomach. I leaned my head against Muhammad’s shoulder.

“Here she is!” Ali extended his arm to point at me. “Medina churns with sickness over your ruin, A’isha. Men are fighting in the streets over your guilt or innocence. Our own people have turned against one another. The unity of the umma is threatened because of you.”

“Did you defend me?” Even as I challenged him, I knew the answer.

He turned to Muhammad. “How can I defend her when Safwan himself will not speak on her behalf?”

Of course. Not only had Safwan disappeared when the crowd grew menacing, but when my father and Ali went to question him, he’d hidden inside his parents’ home. Some rescuer. I felt tears burn my eyes, but I willed them away. The only one who could save me, it seemed, was me.

“Safwan doesn’t need to defend me,” I said, although my voice quavered and I still leaned on Muhammad for support. “I can speak for myself.”

“Let her rest,” Muhammad said. He helped me walk to my bed, but before I could lie down Ali was insisting I tell my story. The umma could not wait to know the truth, he said. Another crowd was forming outside the mosque at this very moment, demanding answers.

I closed my eyes, recalling the tale I and Safwan had fashioned on the ride home, during my lucid moments. “I was looking for my agate necklace,” I said, fingering the smooth stones. “My father gave it to me on my wedding day. Remember?” I looked at Muhammad. “It means as much to me as the necklaces you’ve given your other wives.”

His expression didn’t change. I pressed on, spinning a tale that began with me slipping behind the sand dunes to relieve myself, then returning to my hawdaj. As I waited to be lifted onto the camel’s back I felt for my necklace—but my throat was bare.

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