The Daughters of Izdihar


 
 
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Contents
 Map 1
 Map 2
 1: Nehal
 2: Giorgina
 3: Nehal
 4: Giorgina
 5: Nehal
 6: Giorgina
 7: Nehal
 8: Giorgina
 9: Nehal
 10: Giorgina
 11: Nehal
 12: Nehal
 13: Giorgina
 14: Nehal
 15: Nehal
 16: Giorgina
 17: Nehal
 18: Nehal
 19: Giorgina
 20: Nehal
 21: Nehal
 22: Giorgina
 23: Nehal
 24: Giorgina
 25: Nehal
 26: Giorgina
 27: Giorgina
 28: Nehal
 29: Giorgina
 30: Nehal
 31: Giorgina
 32: Giorgina
 33: Nehal
 34: Giorgina
 35: Nehal
 36: Giorgina
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 
 
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 iv
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Contents
 1: Nehal
 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 
 
 To my mother, who always knew this would happen
 
 
 
 
 
 Map 1
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Map 2
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1Nehal
 
 Nehal Darweesh wanted to spit fire, but unfortunately she did not have that particular ability. Instead, she pulled out the
 liquid contents of a glass of water and separated them into rather large and ungainly droplets, much to the irritation of
 her mother, Shaheera, who found herself the unfortunate target of the storm.
 
 
 Shaheera was leaning against a vanity laden with various concoctions of oils and perfumes. Her arms and legs were both tightly
 crossed, her forehead slowly setting into an even tighter scowl. Her corkscrew curls, which Nehal had inherited, were pulled
 back into a neat bun and oiled to a perfect sheen. Slowly, she began to tap her foot in warning.
 
 
 Finally, when Nehal’s rain began to pool at Shaheera’s feet, Shaheera clapped her hands together and snapped, “Enough!”
 
 Nehal did not look at her mother, nor did she spare a glance for the seamstress at her feet, who was doing her best to write
 down Nehal’s measurements while politely ignoring the gathering storm in the room. Instead, Nehal stared out her veranda,
 which led directly to a white-sand beach and an expanse of glittering blue ocean. The veranda doors were open, as they nearly
 always were, bringing forth a warm salt-spray breeze and the humming melody of waves.
 
 
 “Nehal.”
 
 
 She could practically hear her mother’s teeth grinding together. With a pointedly loud sigh, Nehal closed her eyes, and the fat droplets returned to their glass, though the puddle on the floor remained; Nehal was nowhere near skilled enough to extract water from a rug. Still, she continued to ignore her mother, who had now begun to pace back and forth around her, skirting the edge of the large four-poster bed behind them. 
 
 “You would think we were sending you off to be executed, not married to one of the wealthiest men in all of Ramsawa,” muttered
 Shaheera. “And you’ve met him; you said he was nice, that you liked him—”
 
 
 Nehal could keep quiet no longer. “That was before I knew I was being sold off to him!”
 
 
 The seamstress, a tiny woman of about forty, shot up, sensing the fight’s escalation. With a halting look between mother and
 daughter, the seamstress said, “I’ve finished, my lady. Once I’ve completed all the adjustments, the wedding attire will be
 ready in a fortnight.”
 
 
 “Excellent,” said Shaheera icily. “Thank you. You may go.” She did not even glance at the seamstress. Her gaze remained fixed
 on her daughter, who was now glaring back with equal fierceness. The two stared at each other silently, a battle of wills
 reminiscent of their many arguments, until the poor seamstress scurried away and closed the bedroom door behind her.
 
 
 “This is unjust, Mama!” Nehal