Free The Hidden by Jo Chumas Page A

destiny as a woman, a life segregated from the world when I want to be part of it. If you were a living thing, journal, flesh and blood, you would pray for me. My rendezvous with Monsieur Alexandre seems like a dream. He has asked me to go to the desert to be part of the Rebel Corps, but how can I if I am sent away? This is why Papa has called me to his study, to tell me the details and to prepare me for what is to come.
    In front of me is the door to Papa’s library. I knock and open the door. It is a warm, welcoming room. I know every locked bookshelf, every floor tile, every chaise and leather tome intimately. I spend a lot of time here when Papa is away, just whiling away the hours, happy to be among knowledge and books. Papa does not like me lingering here, but he encourages me to take whatever volumes I want for my studies. He is sitting in his armchair near the window. I must make sure my eyes don’t wander as he speaks to me.
    “Fire,” he says.
    “Yes, Papa?”
    “You know the time has come, don’t you, to be a wife again to your husband.”
    My eyes become wet with tears.
    “Papa?”
    “You have not lived as your husband’s wife for nearly six years.”
    I purse my lips and swallow. This is so difficult for me. To look at the face of the man I love, my father, and know that in my heart I am betraying him. I remain silent.
    “Why don’t you answer me, Hezba daughter? You must know it’s your destiny to be a good wife to your husband and to have a child. Why do you insist on being so difficult? Why do you not rush to prepare yourself for his coming?”
    “Papa, I—I don’t know how to answer you.”
    “If you cannot talk to me, talk to your mother.”
    “Maman won’t listen to me. She thinks I am impulsive. She thinks I have ideas that are too grand. She is not interested in anything I have to say.”
    Papa cocks his head at me. “That is not true, Hezba daughter. Your mother wants what is best for you. She wants you to have a good life. She does not want the whole of Cairo to be talking about you. She does not want you to shame the name of the sultan. Nor do I. You know you are my favourite daughter, Hezba child, but I will not tolerate this behaviour for a moment longer.”
    I stand before him and feel nothing but shame burning through me. I want to burst into tears, but I do not dare. Papa hates shows like that. It would upset him further. I decide to try and remain composed and wait for the awful news, which I know deep in my heart he is going to tell me, that al-Shezira will be here soon, and I will be robbed of my chance to go to Alexandre’s rendezvous in the desert.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Farouk didn’t stay long at Achmed’s literary launch. Ibrahim’s wife did not want to talk to him; that much was obvious. As he’d listened to speeches and the readings, and flicked through the book of poetry
Monument,
he had studied the girl’s demeanour, her facial expressions, the way she held herself in public, trying to get an idea of what type of person she was. No ordinary girl, he had concluded. Something of an aloof character, poised, holding herself well in her grief. There was nothing more he could do tonight. If he had tried too hard to befriend her, she might have gotten suspicious. Besides, he was only doing what Littoni had suggested to put him off guard.
    He took a taxi to Jewel’s dead brother’s apartment in Abbassiya. Farouk found the building and let himself in through a dull brown door. Before closing the door, he swung round and shot a look at a cluster of children playing in the corridor. The door to their apartment was open, and a woman was moving between the apartment and the corridor, checking on the children. It was late. He could not imagine why they were up at this hour. Maybe the heat was keeping them up. He counted seven of them, and they were all eyeing him curiously. Seeing him, the woman gathered the children impatiently to her and ushered them back into her