A soft crescent moon watches from above, stars blanketing the sky, as a fire roars below. Dozens of caravanners are arranged in a circle in the modest courtyard of Deir Al-Mulk, a Khan situated along the road between Al-Jawhara and Hadut. A couple of the men have pulled out instruments—drums, lutes, and reeds—and have started an impromptu show for their companions. The singing, laughter, and casual chattering weaves a very merry tapestry of the eve.
Farah looks right at home, having tied a scarf dripping with coins around her waist, she’s dancing in circles around herself. Her golden eyes twinkle as they meet Naz’s eyes. She shakes her way over to her friend, arm extended, finger curling to beckon her friend.
It’s hard not to open up like a flower in bloom when Farah smiles at you like that. Naz looks down at her lap bashfully.
“C’mon, Naz! Dance with me!” Farah demands, raising her voice over the commotion around her. She holds both hands out now, opening and closing them in more of a “gimme” gesture now.
With a laugh that lights her whole face up, Naz places both of her hands in Farah’s, aware that the other woman would absolutely not take “No” for an answer. “I don’t know how to dance,” she confesses.
Farah tightens her grip on Naz’s fingers. Her hands are warm, and they send a pleasant heat through Naz’s hands. “Well, I’m gonna teach you! You ready?”
The thought of dancing in front of all these people—most of them strangers, at that—sends a jolt of panic through Naz. The mere act of standing up to join the dancers makes her feel as though she’d just volunteered to throw herself off a boat and into the ocean. She bites her lip uncomfortably. “I most certainly am not ready.”
Farah’s face sinks, her hands moving upwards to gently hold onto Naz’s wrists. “But it’ll be fun!”
“Farah.” That voice, like fireflies in the darkness, comes from behind the duo. Nat towers over the two smaller girls. She places a hand on each of their shoulders. “It might be best for Naz to be more inconspicuous. Dancing may not be the best idea.” She gives Naz a sympathetic smile.
The frown on Farah’s face melts into a mischievous grin, the spark returning to her eyes. “Fine, but you’re dancing instead, Natkins.”
A soft chuckle slips through Nat’s lips as she gingerly takes Farah’s hands. “There’s nothing else I’d rather do.” She turns her attention to Naz one last time to say, “Morgan’s over in the back. Could you check on her?”
Naz nods as she backs away out of the circle of dancing caravanners. Being out of the fray sends an instant rush of relief through her, but it is dampened by the knot that forms in her heart at the thought of being alone with Morgan. To say they hadn’t gotten along during this journey would be an understatement. Although, she can’t help but admit to herself that being far away from the noise of the celebration sounds incredibly attractive at the moment as a migraine begins to peck lightly at her temple.
It isn’t hard to find Morgan if you know to check the darkest shadows first. She sits with her back against the wall, nursing a cup of tea in her hands. She watches Naz’s approach from under her dark lashes but gives no more acknowledgement than that.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says quietly—more to break the silence than anything. “It’s just… overwhelming being over there.”
The expression on Morgan’s face is unreadable as she pats the patch of dirt beside her. “Be my guest, princess.”
Hiding the grimace that begins to form on her face at the nickname, Naz drops to the ground beside Morgan, crossing her legs underneath her skirt. She shivers as she leans back against the wall. It’s too cold to relieve the tension in her shoulders fully.
“These people are so much more tolerable from a distance,” Morgan remarks, turning her head to face Naz.
Naz crosses her arms over her chest, partly to trap whatever warmth she can beneath them and partly to express her distaste. “These people are risking a lot to hide us.”
Morgan turns her attention back to her cup of tea with a click of her tongue.
“You could stand to be a bit nicer, you know,” Naz says, unable to stop her jaw from shaking as she does.
“Is that an order, princess?” Morgan replies with a sneer—that nickname again…
A cloud of mist emerges from Naz as she sighs. She points her hazel eyes back at the crowd, trying to find Farah and Nat again. “No, it isn’t.”
She shuts her eyes and turns her lips in a frown. Every time she speaks to Morgan, it’s just one more step backwards—step far enough away and she may just lose Morgan completely. Nonetheless, she cannot deny the effect Morgan has on her—the way her voice turns all coherent thought to mush in Naz’s mind, or the way Morgan’s fingers leave blossoms on her skin when they touch, like the kiss of spring. And sometimes, when those steel-grey eyes are focused on Naz, she can feel that touch from across the room.
Yet Naz knows that it could all very well be in her head—after all, what would someone as stunning as Morgan want with someone like Naz? She probably can’t wait to get rid of Naz at the earliest opportunity—after all, she’s said as much. It’s been several weeks since then, but it’s probably too much to hope that she’s changed that opinion.
“At least be nicer to me, then…” The words are quiet as a whisper and spill out of Naz’s lips before she can stop them. She winces, pressing her lips together in a straight line and hoping that Morgan hadn’t heard her.
All she hears from Morgan is a long exhale, and for a moment that’s the end of it—
Until she feels heavy fabric drape over her shoulders and onto her lap. She opens her eyes to find Morgan’s face a mere few centimeters away from her own. Naz inhales so sharply that she nearly chokes on her own saliva.
Morgan’s lips twitch in a smirk. “This nice enough for you?” The sensation of her breath against Naz’s face makes her heart twitch so hard it makes her chest ache.
Naz clutches the fabric to her chest. She notes that Morgan’s cloak no longer sits around her shoulders. “No, Morgan—” she protests.
Morgan chuckles and settles back next to Naz, close enough that their thighs are touching through the fabric of their kaftans. “Always complaining about something, aren’t you, princess.” The nickname feels lighter now, almost affectionate—but it must just be Naz’s imagination.
“I mean, I can’t take this.” Naz begins to pull the fabric off of her. “You’ll freeze.”
In a move that causes Naz’s heart to stop beating in her chest, Morgan’s arm slithers around Naz’s shoulders, grabbing one corner of the cloak, the other hand grabbing the opposite corner. She pulls the cloak up to Naz’s chin. The position also leaves Morgan close enough to brush her lips against Naz’s ear. “You’ll warm me up, won’t you?”
It’s unclear whether the cloak is working, or whether it’s Morgan making Naz’s entire body heat up. Her throat closes up completely, leaving her unable to form words, and even if she could, what would she say? Her mind has forsaken her completely. If she could say anything it would be “Morgan” and well… Morgan knows. She knows she’s shattering Naz’s senses into tiny pieces and she’s counting on it.
Morgan’s hand wraps around Naz’s shoulder, idly rubbing up and down her arm. The second hand reaches for Naz’s face, fingers tracing along her jaw until they cup her chin. “Just relax,” Morgan mumbles, the flirtation gone from her voice. The intensity in her eyes threaten to sweep Naz into a storm she could never hope to escape from—not that she would ever want to.
Naz’s lip trembles, but not from the cold. She scans Morgan’s face, trying to find any sign that she’s joking, and in doing so, gets lost tracing lines from freckle to freckle on her face.
With a huff of defeat, Naz rests her head against Morgan’s shoulder, nestling into the curve of her neck. She feels Morgan’s hand slip away from her face and Naz almost whines at the loss, until she feels that very same hand slip under the cloak. It rests against Naz’s thigh. The move seems to have no ulterior motive; Morgan’s fingers begin to idly draw circles into Naz’s skirt.
Naz shifts her gaze away from the caravanners and back to the stars in the sky. The tension in her body begins to flow out of her, almost as though Morgan were reaching into her and pulling it out of her in ribbons. Her eyes flutter shut. She snakes her hand down to meet Morgan’s underneath the cloak. She links her fingers through Morgan’s, mumbling a soft “Thank you” into her shoulder.
The only answer Morgan offers is a gentle squeeze of her fingers—firm enough that she knows she can’t just be imagining it.