Pillars of Light by Jane Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

Nathanael? “What?”
    “Have you heard from our burning coal?”
    The Burning Coals of Islam. After the Battle of Hattin, Malek’s heroism had been recognized: Zohra’s brother was now a burning coal, a member of Salah ad-Din’s personal guard.
    She shook her head. “No, we’ve not heard from Malek in a while. There was a messenger last month.” The messenger came every month with a pouch of coins; the last one had come all the way from Jerusalem. It was all that kept the jackals from their door. “He was fine then. The messenger didn’t mention him taking any wound.” In fact, he hadn’t mentioned anything at all; the money had arrived without a note.
    Even the thought of Malek had a physical effect on Jamilla. She caught her breath, her eyelids fluttered, colour caught in her pale cheeks. It was such a shame about her arm, Zohra thought. She would have been almost pretty if it hadn’t been for the withered limb that hung flaccidly at her side. You could hardly tell under the stiffened silk of her sleeve, but when they were children her brothers had teased her mercilessly, calling it her “witch arm” and pretending to be terrified lest it touch them. And yet Jamilla had always idolized Malek, making excuses for his cruelty or thoughtlessness:
he can’t help it, he’s a boy; he can’t show his real feelings, it’s unmanly …
    “I wish he were coming.” Jamilla looked down, smoothed the silk at her slim waist with her good hand. “I put on my best robe.”
    Zohra felt a flood of sympathy. “He would compliment you were he here, I’m sure. Here, help me with the tea.”
    They made mint tea and carried it through to the guest salon. Zohra poured it from a great height towards the little decorated glasses—but the wine, or the feelings her visit to a forbidden househad stirred up, made her hand unsteady. Tea splashed everywhere, making the aunts exclaim and shield their skirts. She served them in order of seniority. Aunt Mina. Aunt Asha. Jamilla’s elder sister, Khalida. Jamilla. A glass for Nima. One for herself. Then she fled away to splash cold water on her face and try to calm down. She changed into her good kaftan—the sky-blue silk with the silver trim—put her hair up under a white scarf and went to the kitchen to dust the pastries with sugar and powdered cinnamon. She was trying so hard to make them as pretty as Ummi did that when a pair of hands encircled her waist and an unmistakably male body pushed itself against her she bit her tongue, which always protruded when she concentrated. Before she had a chance to scream or fight free, a pair of hands travelled to her breasts and squeezed hard. Just like that—as if testing fruit at the souq.
    She turned, ready for a fight, thinking it was Kamal or his horrible friend Bashar. But instead she found her cousin Tariq grinning at her defiantly. The wine rose to her head once more. In a fury she flung herself at him, hitting him hard on the chest, leaving fist-shaped marks in powdered sugar on his smart damson robe.
    Tariq laughed and caught her wrists. “You’ll need to get used to it, cousin. When we’re wed I can do to you whatever I want. And I shall want to do a great deal. I like a girl with a bit of fight in her.” His eyes travelled over her lasciviously. Then, with her wrists imprisoned in one of his big hands, he ran the other down over her abdomen to her crotch, jamming his fingers hard between her legs.
    Zohra wanted to cry out, but it would shame her family. She backed away till the worktop dug into her spine, and clamped her thighs shut on his invading hand, but still he kept pushing at her, his tongue between his thick lips, his black, expressionless eyes watching her.
    “Get away from me, you filthy pig!” she hissed. “You are disgusting. Disgusting!” She squirmed and fought until sweat trickleddown her ribs. Had he smelled the wine on her? Was that what made him think he could treat her like a