Free Rosewater and Soda Bread by Marsha Mehran

light, she could tell her friend looked drained of every last ounce.
    “I brought
the gormeh sabzi
I promised,” she said. “And some chickpea cookies. I made an extra batch.”
    She was about to tell Estelle about the pistachio halvah she had also packed when the old widow's peculiar behavior stopped her.
    Bringing her index and middle fingers up to her pursed lips, Estelle blew a silent shush and shook her head. She then waved her left hand back and forth as if swatting a stubborn mayfly.
    Before Marjan had a chance to speak again, Estelle pushed her gently into the nearby kitchen.
    The room's periwinkle blue cabinets and daffodil-colored walls compounded the cheerful effect of the interminable sunshine streaming in from a large south-facing window. The light revealed purple shadows under Estelle's eyes, casting shadowy wrinkles not usually seen on her vibrant Mediterranean face.
    Estelle lowered her fingers from her lips, but not before Marjan caught a glimpse of the state of her hands: sandpaper red, they were stiffened into large, immobile claws.
    “I knew you weren't feeling well,” Marjan said, guilt flooding over her. “I should have come up to see you last night.”
    Estelle tsked. “I am fine, darling. It is not me that is sick.” She might have sounded more convincing had she not begun to sway on her heels, her bandy knees wobbling dangerously.
    “You need to sit down,” Marjan said, pulling a kitchen chairbeneath the widow. The old lady sank into it immediately, sighing with relief.
    “I wish you had told me how you were feeling sooner.” Marjan grabbed the tin kettle off the stove and filled it up in the sink. She positioned it back on the front burner, the gas licking its sides until it burnt out a bright orange-blue flame. “You promised me you'd call whenever you felt this weak,” she said, turning to her friend.
    “You look tired too, darling.”
    Marjan waved away Estelle's concern. “Not at all. The café's been really busy lately. That's all.” She opened a cupboard and took down a large ceramic mug. “You're the one who has to take it easy. All right?”
    Estelle was so tired that her eyes seemed to forget their ability to blink.
    “Estelle?”
    The widow shook her head abruptly. “Oh, sorry, darling. I think I just fell asleep with my eyes open.” She smiled weakly.
    “Let's forget about the tea,” Marjan said. “I want you to get into bed and I'll bring you a cup of hot milk. Come on now.” She prodded Estelle's arm.
    “No, no. I have to tell you something. Something about what is in my bed,” Estelle insisted. “Sit, sit.” She patted the wooden hearth chair next to her.
    Marjan bit her lip and settled reluctantly into the seat. She turned to the widow, who without further ado began her story. The story of the mermaid on the shores of Clew Bay.

    “IN THE INLET?” Marjan asked, as Estelle concluded her tale.
    Estelle shook her head solemnly. “Terrible, absolutely terrible. I could not believe it myself, but it's true.”
    Marjan looked down for a moment. It was too much to take in. “Do you think someone did something to her?”
    “I think this at first. I was about to call the guards, but then I look more.” She paused. “I look at her body, at her belly, and I saw more.”
    Marjan frowned, missing the meaning behind the widow's words. “So this girl you found, you think she was trying to kill herself by drowning? In the Bay?”
    “A person can kill themselves in many ways. It is not always physical, you know. You can kill your heart, your hope, your future, if you don't believe that life is a gift.”
    Estelle paused, aware that her explanation was more enigmatic than she had intended. She peered into Marjan's puzzled face. “I don't know if she was trying to kill herself, darling,” she said. “But I am very sure she was trying to kill her baby.”

CHAPTER IV

    BEING THE MIDDLE-BORN had its advantages, Bahar told herself. There was so much more scope for the