The sweet scent of the orange carrot halwa filled Cypress House.

We trod through lilac-petaled hallways to the back of the house, where the dining quarters positioned before old wooden doors opened out onto the lush green grounds. Sheer hangings fluttered into the room by the breeze. Low cushioned seats were set on the floor along the walls on a soft carpet, right before the open doors so that the view faced the grounds.

A man sat at the low table in the center reading a leather-bound volume, despite the paratha, the carrot halwa, and shakshuka eggs with tomato sauce set before him. The hangings drifted in the breeze over his book, making him appear an apparition that did not belong in the midst of all the food.

“I think I’ve found the answer, uncle Al-Ghazan,” the man said without looking up from his pages. “To your question about the chemical synthesis problem.”

“How did you know it was me?” Al-Ghazan said.

“I always know it’s you,” the man said, his eyes still on the page. “You have the most strident footfalls with that big figure of yours than anyone I’ve ever met. And you’re seventy. That is a mighty achievement, I’ll tell you.” The man finally glanced up from his page and saw me. He dropped the book, his expression sobering. “Ah, why did you not tell me you brought a guest, a sister! My apologies, begum, how impolite of me. Salaam,” he nodded his head. “It has been a long time since I have seen a sister among us since Surayyah was gone.”

“This brash man,” Al-Ghazan introduced, “Is Tariq ibn Mazul. This is begum Rahena.”

“Salaam, brother Tariq,” I said, nodding my head. “Who is this Surayyah you speak of?”

Al-Ghazan took a seat near the grounds and motioned for me. I sat before a plate of the shakshuka, warmed by a small heated silver below the dish.

“She is my blood-sister,” Tariq glanced away. “For a short while she was as much a part of Cypress House as we are now, but…yes, she has a life in our homeland of Arassan, and all her travels.”

“Tariq,” Al-Ghazan said, “teaches letters and arithmetics at the village school down in the valley to the south, bless him, you know it must take an extraneous amount of energy to be teaching little brats like Maryam and Omar,” said Al-Ghazan. “He’s modest about it, but he’s opened the school himself. I’ll give you that one, Tariq.”

“Ah, yes, some days I regret my choices, uncle Ghazan,” he said. A loose blue tunic contrasted against the soft gray of his eyes, and brown cropped hair.

“Are you another one of Al-Ghazan’s lost souls?” Tariq asked her, leaning forward curiously. “How do you manage to collect them, uncle?”

“You should not be complaining, Tariq,” Al-Ghazan said, pouring himself a small glass of coffee from a steaming silver pot. “You were one of my first.”

“I like to think I established it,” he grinned.

Soon came the children Maryam and Omar. They quarreled as they came down the hall, shoving each other. All traces of the pomegranates were gone, except for the hint of ruby juice staining their lips as they smiled innocently. Maryam had a mischievous dimple, bright eyes, and her hair was as unruly as she seemed to be. It was the hair, or perhaps the eyes, that struck Rahena closely of Qamarah at her age. Untameable locks, the hint of a smile too shrewd for her age.

The boy named Omar seemed about three years younger, with copper-green eyes and round cheeks.

“Ahem, ahem,” Tariq cleared his throat loudly at them. “Now what more nonsense tricks have you two been concocting again?”

“Nothing – nothing at all, Uncle Tariq,” Maryam said the words too quickly, then turned to glare at Omar as if it was his fault.

Then Maryam’s eyes fell on me. “Who is this?” she asked, staring at me.

“Maryam!” Tariq bellowed. “That is rude.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry.” Maryam turned to me. “Who are you?”

Tariq’s veins almost popped out of his head. “I apologize, sister Rahena.”

Maryam and Omar took a seat and began piling on shakshuka and halwa onto their plates. Tariq announced to them, “Sister Rahena has joined us for a short time.”

“You’re not staying?” Omar asked as he chewed. “Why aren’t you staying? Everyone stays.” Then he looked up thoughtfully. “Except Surayyah ji. She never stays for long.” He looked down at his food sadly.

“Neither of you have said salaam to begum Rahena still!” Tariq bellowed exasperatedly.

“Oh!” Maryam said in the middle of scarfing down eggs, as if she had just remembered. “Assaalamualaikum!”

“Assalamualaikum!” Omar echoed his sister.

“Walaikumusalam,” I said, trying to suppress a laugh.

Tariq sighed and shook his head. He put down his book and reached for the parathas.

Imraan came down the hall. “Good morning, bachaas,” he declared. He ruffled Maryam’s hair, leaving it more unruly than it already was, and she giggled.

“Oh, by the Creator, do I need some coffee after dealing with those goats,” Imraan said. He poured himself a steaming hot cup, then sat down to savor it with his eyes closed, breathing it in.

“What happened to the fence?” Tariq asked.

“Destroyed,” Imraan said. “I don’t know how this wolf keeps getting in after I secured it. I hope we don’t lose any more. I might have to set a trap for the wolf if it comes again.”

“There will be more,” Tariq nodded.

“There are always more,” Imraan grumbled.

As we ate, Maryam asked across the table through a mouthful of halwa, “So where did you come from, Rahena?”

“Did you have adventures where you came from?” Omar piped in.

“Maryam, Rahena is your elder. What do you say to your elder?”

“Yes, I mean, Rahena begum, where did you come from?” Maryam said, swallowing.

“Begum Rahena doesn’t need to answer such questions, Maryam,” Imraan said.

Stolen story; please report.

“It is alright,” I said to them, unable to help smiling at them. “I grew up in Bayrun.”

Maryam chewed. “Hm, I’ve never heard of it. Was it anything like our village in the south? I don’t remember too much of our village, but I do remember chasing my brother through our fields; and smearing grass over his face. But once, my parents found me. Then it was not very fun, I tell you.” She frowned, looking thoughtful.

Omar, holding half his paratha in his chubby hands, confronted her. “You smeared grass over my face?” he exclaimed.

“You were too young to remember it, so you see, you’re fine,” Maryam shrugged, ruffling his hair.

Omar glowered at her and punched her on the arm. “Ow!” Maryam shouted. Tariq was trying to calm them down when Al-Ghazan’s servantman entered.

“Sir Al-Ghazan,” he announced. “There is someone here. Begum Surayyah and sir Yusuf.”

“Surayyah?” Tariq asked, setting down his halwa.

“Surayyah ji!” Omar exclaimed, forgetting about the vengeance on his sister, his eyes brightening.

The others halted their eating. A woman in a midnight-blue robe appeared in the room, with a shawl in the same shade over her head draped over her shoulders like a cape. Her kohl-rimmed dark eyes peered out over the thin russet-colored veil that covered the bottom half of her face. She wore a crisscrossing harness of leather belts with a leather scabbard at her side.

A tall man with dark locks of hair followed her. He wore a tunic edged in silver details, with a leather belt similar to that of the Begum Surayyah’s. With deep set, pensive eyes, seemingly ruminating in his thoughts, his were the opposite of his wife’s, whose bright eyes seemed ever alert.

Yusuf and Surayyah wore weary smiles, Surayyah’s reflected in the curve of her eyes. But as I watched the fellow woman with curiosity, I noticed Begum Surayyah’s fingers brush the hilt of her scabbard, moving absent-mindedly along the length of the silver.

“By Ardth, I swear you’ve put a spell on this place, ya Al-Ghazan uncle,” Begum Surayyah exclaimed. “It appears more concealed by the year, and yet more beautiful.”

“What a sight to behold, its the wandering Surayyah,” Imraan called.

Al-Ghazan laughed. “I’m glad my negligent tending of the land inspires wonder in you, dear Surayyah.” He embraced her lightly, before Omar jumped from his seat over Maryam and launched himself at the woman. Maryam went running to Yusuf.

Laughing, Surayyah took up Omar in her arms. “What have you been up to while I’ve been away, my shona?”

“I was just telling Rahena Begum that you never stay!” Omar exclaimed to Surayyah. “You must stay this time, please?”

“Who is Rahena Begum?” Surayyah’s eyes roved over the table, alighting on me. “Ah, another sister! What a blessing. All of you men were beginning to crowd the place, weren’t you, Omar sweet one?” Surayyah smiled, and called her salaam to me.

“Salaam, sister,” I called back.

“You are here to stay then?” she asked.

“I don’t plan to —” I began.

“—That is what they all say, at first,” Surayyah laughed.

“Ah really, where do you intend to go then, fugitive?” Imraan asked.

“I am not certain,” I said. Yet the only place that came to mind was the room from my dreams in Abbasid’s Keep. “I have considered Arassan. I need to find something there,” I said finally.

“Arassan?” Surayyah asked.

“So?” Omar asked. “Are you staying, Surayyah ji?”

“I cannot, my moon,” the woman said, brushing Omar’s round cheek and setting him down, taking Maryam up. “But I may or may not have some sweet gaz hidden for you two somewhere.” She smiled mischievously at them, her eyes lighting up.

Omar gasped, “Where?”

Surayyah put a hand gently on his head and looked him in the eyes. “First I need to speak with your uncle Al-Ghazan. Can you do something for me, my shona? Go play with your sister, and then I promise you’ll have the sweets.”

Omar considered for a moment. “I can wait,” he said.

“But I want to hear,” Maryam exclaimed. “Why can’t we listen? It is something important, isn’t it?”

“You heard her, Maryam,” Tariq said. “You’ve scarfed down your plate already. Go.”

“Come, sister!” Omar pulled her by the hand, and Maryam went, with eyes narrowed in suspicion looking back at them.

Tariq embraced Yusuf and Surayyah. “Always astonishes me how only you can calm them down like that, Surayyah. You make me look incompetent! Sister, you did not tell me you were coming.”

“Brother,” the woman’s voice became stilted as she spoke with him. “Yes, I was finishing up a negotiation here.”

Yusuf said, “It is always in Ifsharan that the business thrives, you know. It is difficult for us to always make it here, but I cannot complain.”

“By Ardth, always business, isn’t it?” Imraan said as he took another bite of his paratha.

Al-Ghazan made space for them. Surayyah seated herself at the table across from Rahena, sitting next to her brother, leaning her elbows on the table.

Her elongated fingers, adorned with several silver rings on each hand, moved like the birds outside. From out in the cool breeze came the chirping of ground jays flitting around the mossy cypress. The chirpings grew louder with the gusts of wind.

“Why are you sitting there as if you are readying yourself for a conference, Surayyah?” Imraan said. “Have some halwa, chaa.”

Tariq poured the two visitors hot cups of chaa, but Surayyah did not touch it.

“What is this news not fit for the children’s ears?” Imraan asked, sipping his own coffee.

Surayyah folded her fingers on the table, and I saw now that they shook. “We were about to head on our way back to Arassan when we received a letter.”

“From whom?” Imraan asked.

“From Abbasid’s Keep,” she said. Her eyes grew hard, her voice thick with emotion now: “Salman attacked us again, he attacked the Jhansari district. But it is happening, Imraan. They are rising up.”

“What are you speaking of? Who is rising up?” Imraan had picked up his paratha but set it down again, staring at her.

Surayyah breathed in. The breeze ruffled the veil around the frame of her face. “My people have been rioting in the streets for months. Then at the end of the month of Shawwal, a boy set himself on fire in the middle of the streets.”

A silence fell in the room, and the clattering of forks and knives ceased.

Outside, the breeze gathered into a strong wind, fluttering the curtains into the room, viciously catching in the air as if pulled by an invisible hand that hovered over the suddenly quiet room. The chirping of the ground jays had subsided.

“By God,” whispered Al-Ghazan.

“And now…it appears it has sparked things in motion that we could have never predicted,” Yusuf murmured.

Surayyah continued, “Others in Jhansar began to riot and hurl themselves against the Shayfahan— until what happened the previous week on the day of Jum’uah. It is unreal for me to hear all this while I am miles away from home, to hear of my people —” She stopped.

“What happened on Ju’mah day?” asked Imraan.

“Salman sent in Shayfahan forces to raid the Jhansar. And they attacked Abbasid’s Keep,” Yusuf finally said.

I felt my throat constrict. Abbasid’s Keep blazed before my eyes, the towers roaring with fire. It could not be possible. How could it be possible?

“Why Abbasid’s Keep?” Imraan exclaimed.

“Because they were writing against Salman. The scholars were beginning to be inspired by the Jhansari resistances,” Surayyah continued. “Salman killed scholars at the Abbasid’s Keep, their families in the Jhansar. They say some have gone into hiding. The place is burning.”

“Irfan’s family is in danger. We are asking you to step in for the Jhansar, Imraan. We cannot do what we are doing by ourselves. We don’t have the resources, the leadership, to fight with without dying. We will keep getting butchered.”

Imraan said nothing, and something cold seeped across the table as they waited for him to speak.

What was it about this man that they all held on to the turns of his mood, his words? I watched him, watched them, as several breaths passed before he spoke.

“The people are rising on their own…” Imraan whispered as if it was a question.

“You tried to achieve this for ten years!” Surayyah said.

“Yet…” Imraan leaned back in his seat against the wall. “It is only a single section in Arassan, it will not last. I cannot go back there, Surayyah.”

“Why not,” Surayyah demanded. Her hands were still now, placed flat against the table, resolute and firm. “Because you are too scared to face him?”

Imraan looked her in the eyes.

“Whatever has happened between you, Imraan,” Surayyah said. “You need to set it aside.”

“What am I supposed to do, Surayyah?” Imraan asked, raising his arms. “What do you want me to do? Tell Irfan I can’t help him. I do not understand why he is asking for my help.”

“You would turn your back on my people?” Surayyah whispered. Her voice lowered. “After what you’ve done, you owe him, Imraan.”

“Imraan,” Al-Ghazan’s voice boomed quietly over the table. “We must.”

Imraan did not look at him, but something passed between them. Al-Ghazan’s eyes held the same look, I saw, as when he spoke of the battle of the Azram plains. A sense of…guilt, almost? I could not identify it.

“Just read the letter,” Surayyah said. “Then make your decision. But Arassan is burning. The Jhansari have been burning for years.”

Yusuf said, “Something is different this time. Something is breaking. We felt it even here, in Ifsharan, too.”

Imraan stared at his plate blankly for a moment. Slamming his hands against the table, he stood up, disappearing away down the hall.

Outside, the winds had fallen silent, and the air was still.

And I knew I had to find the room with the floating doors. Abbasid’s Keep had called me for a long time, it seemed, and now it was here.