Free Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) by Ruth Francisco Page A

some sleep.  Tomorrow I will get you and your family out of here.  On the road to safety.”  His face relaxes.  It was only momentary panic. 
    It is the least we can do—breathe courage over dying embers.  It doesn't take much to make the fire roar again.  His eyes darken with resolve. 
    Before I leave, I pick up a towel and walk over to the girls by the potbelly stove.  “Come here,” I say to the eight-year old, “and I'll dry your hair.”  I pat my lap.  She hesitates, then climbs on my knees.  She has her father's mouth and eyes.  Too much guilt for a child's face.  She must know her family is running for her.  I gently rub her hair with the towel.  “Nobody knows you are here,” I say.  “You are safe.  Do you know why?”
    “Why?”
    “Because this is a very old theater.  It has seen hundreds of plays about kings and knights and wizards.  When an actor hangs up his costume for the last time, the spirit of the character refuses to disappear and stays here in the theater.”
    “Like a ghost?”
    “Yes, like a ghost.  The spirits protect anyone who enters the theater, and especially watch out for children.  Right now they are standing by the doors and windows, guarding, making sure you are safe.  King Lear, Henry IV, Joan of Arc, Willy Loman, Henry Higgins, Hedda Gabler—they're all watching out for you.  This is the safest place in all of Amsterdam.”
    “Are you a ninja?” 
    This isn't the first time my black shalwar kameez has been mistaken for a ninja outfit.  “It's a character I'm playing.  When I hang up my costume tonight, my ninja spirit will be watching over you.”
    She turns and looks me in the eye.  Her eyes darken.  She's old enough to disbelieve such stories, but young enough to wish they were true.  “Okay,” she says, nodding.  She slides off my lap, takes the towel, and begins drying the hair of her sister, whispering softy.  Understanding the rituals of bedtime. 
    Signora Caputi looks at me gratefully.  I slip out of the dressing room, across the stage, and out the door.
    I run in the shadows toward my home.
     
    Indecent Proposal
     
    Sneaking into my house, I carefully take my shoes off in the hallway.  I close the door soundlessly behind me and press my back against the wall, trying to stay upright.  Exhaustion overtakes me and I can barely stand.  As I unbutton my tunic , I hear voices from the dining room.
    “Do you really think it's necessary, Jana?”  Rafik scrapes his chair away from the table.  “I suppose you're right.  Come here—” more chair scraping, a giggly gasp from my mother, a lap plop, a kiss “—I guess I'd hoped she could wait until the war was over.”  
    I hear a quiet shifting of bodies gently embracing.  Then I hear my mother slowly stand and begin clearing dishes off the table.  My stomach clenches, guilty, hungry.  They must've put off dinner, waiting for me, then gave up. 
    “The war is not going to end any time soon,” Jana says.  “It's the best way I can think of to protect her.” 
    “The way I protected you?”  Rafik laughs easily, and there is a warm ring to it.  You can hear how much he adores my mother.
    “Yes.”  I can tell she is smiling.
    “Well—”  Rafik clears his voice, a lingering thickness “—I suppose you have someone in mind.”
    “Kazan Basturk,” she says.
    “You're joking.  The son of Ahmed Basturk?  I do nothing but butt heads with the mutaween every day.”
    “Ahmed Basturk is a moderate on the Islamic Council.  He is no t a mutawa.   His son has lived in Switzerland, and has been to university.  He's pleasant and smart.  The women at the mosque think he is a good catch.”
    I am getting a bad feeling about this conversation.
    “You don't think it is . . . how do you say . . . sleeping with the enemy?” Rafik mumbles. 
    “The arrangement will protect our family, and secure your position as police commissioner.  Ahmed Basturk will approve of the