Free Sparkers by Eleanor Glewwe Page B

means, generally in the same profession. Before he died, Gadi Yared’s husband was a draper who occasionally took tea with the kasir owner of a small cloth shop. But even that was unusual.
    â€œThe Rashids are liberal-minded,” Channah says, guessing my thoughts. Her expression is unreadable.
    Despite my misgivings, I soften when I think of Sarah. And I am curious to see the inside of a kasir home. This is probably the only chance I’ll ever have.
    â€œI’ll come,” I tell Channah.
    â€œVery good,” she says. “I’ll see you this evening.” She turns on her heel.
    Caleb gapes at me from the stove. Grinning, I sign him a brief explanation and then head for the study. Mother is gathering papers at her desk, about to leave for the District Hall.
    â€œMother? Can I go somewhere for dinner?” I explain how I know Sarah.
    â€œWell, I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t go,” Mother says. “It might even be impolite to turn down such an invitation. I’m surprised, though, that you’re so attached to an eight-year-old kasir girl you’ve hardly known two weeks.”
    I hesitate. “It was the way she treated Caleb. You know how everyone acts like he doesn’t exist once they realize he’s deaf? Sarah wasn’t like that.”
    Mother smiles tiredly. “Don’t stay out too late, Marah.”
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    A FEW MINUTES before five o’clock, a sleek automobile turns onto our street, and I run downstairs. Snow dusts the auto’s flat roof and gathers in the wheels’ metal spokes. Channah motions for me to sit in front. Just before I climb in, I notice one of our neighbors standing on the doorstep of the apartment building opposite ours. He stares openmouthed at me and the automobile. Wincing inwardly, I duck inside, and Channah speeds down the street.
    We rumble westward, leaving the city’s crowded districts behind. We pass courtyards full of dormant potted plants wrapped in burlap and twine. Curlicued wrought-iron gates guard the homes. Another auto rolls past us, headed into the city, and a little later, we overtake a carriage. Still farther down the road, the fashionable suburbs give way to open country dotted with austere mansions.
    Channah eases the auto around a curve. Birch trees, their white bark standing out starkly in the bluish evening, line the gravel road and part to reveal a huge house on a rise. The driveway’s open gates glint in the headlamps’ light. We glide through, fresh snow crunching under our wheels. After Channah parks the automobile in an outbuilding, I follow her across the driveway to the mansion’s least imposing entrance. We stamp the snow from our shoes and go inside.
    â€œThis way, through the kitchen,” Channah says, unwinding her scarf. I take off my cloak as we step into a room filled with clanging and sizzling. I smell roasting meat, herbs, butter, mushrooms. The cook, stirring something on the stove, looks me over curiously.
    Apprehensive, I follow Channah down a corridor. In a mansion like this, I’d expect electric lights, but we’re too far out for that. Only kasir buildings in the center of Ashara have electricity. Here, two gasoliers with gold branches hang from the ceiling, their flames throwing shadows onto the wallpaper. A door swings open, and Sarah races down the hall to grab my hand.
    â€œMarah, you’re here!” she cries. “Come meet Azariah.”
    I can’t help smiling at her clear voice and bright face. She drags me into the room she burst from. It’s a study, its walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A carved wooden music stand and a chair occupy one corner of the room. Opposite the door, a tall window framed by velvet curtains looks out onto the snow-blanketed lawn. I can distinguish the dark edge of the forest on the western horizon. Facing this view is a glossy wooden desk with lion’s feet and