City of Jasmine by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online Page A

the desert can truly appreciate the city of princes,” he replied smoothly.
    He guided me through the temples and mosques and souks, making our way from one end of the old city to the other. Together we strolled the stony streets and Rashid, much to my surprise, kept his word about keeping the merchants away. He waved off the fruit sellers and spice merchants alike, turning down offers of excellent prices on rugs and perfumes and brassware. It was only when a fabric merchant flung himself in front of us and unrolled his wares that I paused.
    “You know, that stuff isn’t half-bad. I think I’d like to have a look,” I told him.
    He rolled his eyes. “It is not good enough for the sitt, but he will have better inside the shop.”
    “Will he?”
    He shrugged. “Of course, sitt. He will not keep his best wares in public view. The most special things are guarded for the very best customers.”
    I followed him into the shop where the merchant stood bowing and expressing his delight at having an exalted English lady in his place of business. He ordered his wife to bring tea and while we waited he showed me his stock.
    Rashid frowned at him and the merchant held up his hands, darting a quick apologetic glance at me. “But I think you would not be interested in such trifles. For you I will bring out the very best of my fabrics.”
    His wife entered with the tea then, and we paused to observe the customary civilities. I had already learned that negotiations with an Arab were not a thing to be undertaken quickly. Like most Easterners, they were immensely hospitable and expected any interaction between people, even strangers doing business, would be punctuated with refreshment and pleasant conversation. In this case, the tea tray was laden with glass cups full of black tea heavily sweetened and spiced with a little crushed cardamom. His wife had brought biscuits, as well, dry things that tasted a little soapy, but I soon discovered they were edible if I dunked them quickly in the tea.
    “Ah, how clever madame is!” the shopkeeper proclaimed, and he dunked his, as well. He leaned closer and gave me a knowing look. “My wife is very beautiful and she bears me sons, but her cooking...” He rolled his eyes heavenward, and threw up his hands.
    We drank several small, heavily sweetened glasses of tea while the merchant talked about his shop. He had taken the business over from his father, who had sold beautiful fabrics, as well, and he had learned the trade from his father, and so the conversation went, pleasant and innocuous, but heightening my anticipation besides. It was masterfully done, and by the time he unrolled the fabrics, I was already persuaded I would buy from him no matter the cost.
    He needn’t have bothered with the theatrics. The fabrics would have sold themselves. In the end, I chose for Aunt Dove an inky blue damask, heavy and expensive. “It will make a splendid dressing gown for her,” I mused aloud. “Perhaps with a nice hanging sleeve. Something deliciously medieval. She can play at being Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
    The merchant bowed, but Rashid gave me a disapproving look. “The sitt does not buy for herself? This will not do.” He went to the shelves and rummaged through the treasures until he unearthed a deep green silk shot with gold. “This, sitt. A gown of this to match the green of your eyes.”
    “I don’t have green eyes. They’re brown,” I corrected.
    He shook his head. “They are the same colour as the spring grass on the breast of Mount Hermon,” he said flatly. “Green and brown mingled together. This is a welcome colour to the Bedouin, sitt. I do not make a mistake.”
    “Fine, they’re hazel,” I responded, compromising. “And I suppose this green will light them up.”
    “In this colour, the sitt will be irresistible to all men.”
    I raised a brow at him, but he wasn’t wrong. Green did bring out the best in my eyes, coaxing the hazel to something altogether more