Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“Alessia?” she whispers.
“Yes.”
She frowns. “My husband…is not here.” Her English sounds rusty and her accent much thicker than her daughter’s. She peers anxiously past me, scanning the driveway—for what, I don’t know—and then she looks directly at me. “You cannot be here.”
“Why?” I ask.
“My husband is not at home.”
“But I need to talk to you about Alessia. I think she’s on her way back here.”
She tilts her head, suddenly alert. “We are expecting her soon. You have heard she is returning?”
My heart leaps in response.
She’s coming home. I was right.
“Yes. And I’ve come to ask you and your husband for…” I swallow. “For…permission to marry your daughter.”
* * *
“Our final border crossing, carissima,” Anatoli says. “Back to your home country. Shame on you for leaving it and skulking away like a thief and dishonoring your family. When we return, you can apologize to your parents for the worry you have caused them.”
Alessia averts her eyes, inwardly cursing him for making her feel guilty for running away. She was running from him! She knows that many Albanian men leave their country to work abroad—for women it’s not so easy.
“This is the last time you have to go in the trunk. But wait, I need to retrieve something first.” She stands back and looks west to where the sun has finally disappeared behind the hills. The chill in the air reaches through her clothes and entwines around her heart. And she knows it’s because she’s pining for the only man she’ll ever love. Tears rise unexpectedly into her eyes, and she blinks them back.
Not now.
She doesn’t want to give Anatoli the satisfaction.
She will cry tonight.
With her mother.
She inhales deeply. This is what freedom smells like—chilly, foreign. When she next takes a deep breath, she’ll be in her homeland, and her adventures will become a…what did Maxim call it? A folly from the past.
“Get in. It will be night soon,” Anatoli snaps as he holds open the lid.
The night belongs to the djinn.
And she’s staring at one now. That’s what he is. The djinn personified. She climbs in without complaint and without touching him. She’s getting closer to home, and for the first time, she’s looking forward to seeing her mother.
“Soon, carissima,” he says, and there’s a troubling glint in his eye.
“Shut the trunk,” she responds as she clutches the flashlight.
His lips lift in a sardonic smile, and he slams the lid down, leaving her in darkness.
* * *
Mrs. Demachi gasps, and with another quick and anxious glance past me, she steps aside. “Come in.”
“Wait in the car,” I say to Thanas, and I follow her into a confined vestibule, where she points to a shoe rack.
Oh. Quickly I slip off my boots, relieved that I’m wearing matching socks.
And that would be because of Alessia….
The hall is painted white, its shiny tiled floor topped by a brightly colored kilim rug. She waves me on into an adjoining room, where two old sofas covered in bold and colorful patterned blankets face each other across a small table that’s also covered in a rich printed cloth. Beyond is a fireplace, its mantelpiece peppered with old photographs. I squint, hoping to see one of Alessia. There’s one of a young girl with large, serious eyes, seated at a piano.
My girl!
The grate is piled with logs, but they remain unlit in spite of the cold, and I suspect that this is the drawing room used to receive company. Pride of place is given to the old upright piano that sits against the wall. It’s plain and shabby, but I bet it’s tuned to perfection. This is where she plays.
My talented girl.
Beside the piano is a tall shelf stacked with well-thumbed books.
Alessia’s mother has not asked me to remove my coat. I don’t think I’m going to be here for long.
“Please. Sit,” she instructs.
I take a seat on one of the sofas, and she perches on the edge of the one opposite, radiating tension. Clasping her hands together, she stares at me expectantly. Her eyes are the same dark shade as Alessia’s—but whereas Alessia’s are full of mystery, her mother’s hold only sadness. I guess it’s because she’s anxious about her daughter. But from her lined face and the sprinkling of gray in her hair, it’s obvious she’s not led an easy life.
Life in Kukës is hard for some women.
Alessia’s quietly spoken words come back to me.
Her mother blinks a couple of times. I suspect I’m making her nervous or uncomfortable, and for that I feel a little guilty.
“My friend Magda, she writes to me about a man who helps my Alessia and also Magda herself. Is that you?” Her voice is hesitant and soft.
“Yes.”
“How is my daughter?” she whispers. She’s studying me intensely, clearly desperate for news of Alessia.
“When I last saw her, she was fine. More than fine, she was happy. I met her when she worked for me. She came to my house to clean.” I simplify my English, hoping Alessia’s mother can keep up.