The Terrorists of Irustan by Louise Marley Page B

impatiently.
    She unbuttoned the verge and lifted the veil from her head, her heavy hair falling unclipped down her back. Qadir took the veil to lay it on the table, and he picked up the bottle. His teeth gleamed white in the half-darkness. “Bring the glasses,” he said huskily.
    He led the way into his bedroom. Zahra followed, still in silence, picking up the two glasses in one hand. She closed the door behind her, and turned to see Qadir already dropping his robe onto a chair. Naked, unself-conscious, he carried the bottle to the bed. His bed was large and deep, framed by a whitewood bedstead with shelves and a reading lamp at its head. He put the bottle on one of the shelves and turned, holding out his hand.
    “Come on, my Zahra,” he said thickly. “It’s been forever.”
    “I could do with a glass of nab’t, Qadir,” she said. It was a rare indulgence, provided to women only at the whim of their husbands. Zahra wasn’t truly fond of it, but she thought it might help.
    “After,” he murmured, and took hold of the neckline of her dress. As he undid the buttons, she reached behind him to press the switch on the lamp, casting the room into darkness.
    The first of the tiny moons was just swimming up over the horizon. Qadir’s bare shoulders and back were visible in its vague light as he drew off Zahra’s dress and then turned to throw back the quilt on the bed. He sat and pulled her into his lap. His skin felt hot against hers.
    “Zahra,” he whispered, his lips against her neck. He ran his hands over her body, her small breasts, her narrow hips. He put his hand between her legs and she pulled away before she could catch herself. “What’s wrong, my Zahra?” Qadir breathed.
    She only shook her head. It was a physical reaction. Involuntary. She wouldn’t let it happen again.
    His hands were insistent. He lay back, pulling her beneath the sheets with him, touching, stroking, first gently, then with urgency.
    “Come on, Zahra,” he groaned. She bit her lip and tried to relax against him. It was so hard to acquiesce, to relinquish control. Few husbands, she knew, would have been as patient with her as Qadir had always been.
    Soon he was pressing her down into the soft bed, his mouth on her breast, her neck, then, patience gone, fastened with hungry determination on her lips. He pulled her hips to his, and she turned her face up, into the pale moonlight shining past the gauze curtains at his window. Her hands lay slack beside her.
    When, shuddering, Qadir finished, Zahra tasted sour bile in her mouth. She swallowed and turned her head away, fearful she would be sick. He was breathing hard, close to her ear. He murmured an endearment. But it was Lili’s voice she heard, Lili’s words:
    Just another leg of the journey, little sister . . . another leg of the journey.

six
    *   *   *
    Allow your wives their freedoms; the bearing and raising of your sons is honorable work.
    —Ninth Homily, The Book of the Second Prophet
    I shi, it’s Circle Day,” Lili urged. “Put away the reader, now, and let’s get you ready.”
    Ishi was sprawled on her cot, her legs dangling, her head bent over her screen. Zahra chuckled. “She doesn’t hear a thing when she’s reading, Lili,” she said.
    Ishi looked up. “I do!” she protested. “But look, Zahra—look at these!” She held out the reader for Zahra to see.
    Bright illustrations rolled slowly across the screen, twining clusters of red and yellow and green. Lili leaned to catch a glimpse. “What are those things?” she asked.
    “Chromosome models, with gene loci,” Zahra said. She added with a touch of malice, “You have all of these in your own body.”
    “I don’t want to hear it!” Lili exclaimed, flapping a wrinkled hand. “Turn it off, Ishi. Your hair needs brushing.”
    Again Ishi behaved as if Lili had not spoken. “Look at this one, Zahra,” she said, scrambling to her knees on the bed to point out an attenuated violet shape, long and