The messenger reached out and took the silver scalpel from the table. He didn’t use it on Yusha. Instead, he walked to the fire and dropped it into the glowing coals.
“The doctor is dead,” the messenger said, looking Yusha in the eye. “He died in the fire years ago. This man is just a beggar who got lucky with a needle. I will tell the Governor we found a wandering monk. We will be gone by noon.”
When the carriage finally pulled away, leaving deep ruts in the mud, the silence that returned to the house was different. It was no longer the silence of peace; it was the silence of a truce.
Malik, Zainab’s father, watched the departure from the doorway of the small shed where he now lived. He had seen the royal crest. He had seen the doctor’s hands. He approached the main house, his gait a pathetic shuffle.
“You could have bargained,” Malik hissed as he reached the porch. “You could have asked for your lands back. For my lands back! You held his son’s life in your hands, and you let him go for free?”
Zainab turned toward her father. She didn’t need to see him to feel the shriveled greed emanating from his pores.
“You still don’t understand, Father,” she said, her voice like a cold bell. “A bargain is what you do when you value things. We value our lives. Today, we bought our silence with a life. That is the only currency that matters.”
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