"I want to see her!" he demanded in Arabic.

"No! It is forbidden!" replied the veiled but insistent shop keeper, her little jeweled slipper stamping the ground for emphasis.

"If I do not see her, there is no sale!" Mr. Lawrence stubbornly responded.

The shop keeper's eyes narrowed furiously at him, then her eyes darted around, the street was not as busy as it had been before. Her eyes snapped back to the man and as she walked towards the little tent she barked, "The English!"

Mr. Lawrence smirked then waited with arms crossed until the tent flap parted and a vision of loveliness stood demurely away from him. His arms fell to his side as he was enchanted by Jazira in her bridal finery. She was dressed in golden Damascus brocade embroidered with a twisting ruby floral pattern that enhanced her dark skin and ebony hair, which was adorned with a headdress of tulle fitted with a band of dangling small coins that jingled in the light breeze. The sheer veil which covered her face only drew more attention to it, as well as the intriguing artwork that sinuously snaked in unique patterns down either side of her neck, disappearing into the crepe collar of her dress. The artistry reappeared on the back of her hands which appeared even more feminine under the ruffled crepe cuffs of her sleeves. Jazira refused to look at him, her head turned to the side, she looked at the ground and then at the shop attendant who reappeared to face Mr. Lawrence. The Englishman however, could not find his voice for a moment then shook himself and said gruffly,

"Wrap it up, it's perfect!"

And Jazira's perfect, he thought as he turned away from the tent to wait on the street. Perfect, for Hasani, of course. He could still see her slender waist, encircled by the golden filigree ornaments that jingled with even her slightest movement. Hasani would be thanking him, this visit to Arabia, and his loyalty to England would be secure.

The sun was beginning it's descent to meld with the horizon when the call to prayer echoed throughout the marketplace and all of Aden. Mr. Lawrence's arms were full of carefully wrapped packages as he and Jazira walked in silence towards his office. It was time to drive the wedge between Frank and Jazira for good, especially since Professor Ward had wrangled up a spot in Mr. Lawrence's own caravan for the cowboy to get to Najd. And while Mr. Lawrence did not mind scuffing up his reputation in the Aden marketplace with a little shop attendant, he did not want his name besmirched in the annals of English history. Enough of the bridal artwork was visible on Jazira's neck and hands to cause Mr. Hopkins to ask what it all meant. Male instinct told Mr. Lawrence, Jazira would not be able to fudge off another half truth. He could envision the whole scene and whatever version he foresaw, they all ended with Frank Hopkins leaving after discovering that his "intended" had opted to "act as a wife" to another man, a man from her home territory, and that she had kept it a secret from him. Why it was enough to drive any man away. He smiled.

The guilt Jazira felt was more oppressive than the veil covering her face. It came crashing down on her as she dressed in her native bridal fashion. The dress she had dreamed of growing up, became a nightmare when she put it on, because it was not for the man she loved. The rest of the day she beat herself, why had she not told Frank the whole truth about her ticket into Rashid as the "bride" of an Arab man, in league with the British. The body art that traveled sloped down her neck, over her shoulders and down her arms were mostly covered up by her thobe. But the back of her hands were clearly visible. It was still very possible that Frank would not notice it, but after realizing how the whole truth would sound to Frank now, how it would hurt him now, made Jazira's heart ache. The only way she could amend things to some extent was to tell Frank the whole horrible business before he had a chance to ask her. She hurried down the street to Mr. Lawrence's office. When she reached the door and opened it, she saw Professor Ward and the same young clerk standing before a map on the wall in conversation. She smiled and looked around the room, Frank was not there. She looked back to see Professor Ward glancing at her and then at Mr. Lawrence as he walked into the office and shut the door. The clerk came and removed the packages from his arms. Jazira asked with concern,

"Where is Frank?"

The clerk stopped in mid stride then resumed walking out of the room and into another. The Professor studied her a minute before answering without smiling,

"I wouldn't know young lady, he separated earlier in the afternoon."

Mr. Lawrence asked, "You mean, he's not with you?"

Professor Ward's expression showed what he thought of that question, which he did not answer. Jazira sensed accusation in Professor Ward's look and tone and she asked earnestly,

"Did he say where he was going?"

"More importantly, did either of you find lodging this afternoon?" interjected Mr. Lawrence.

But Professor Ward only answered Jazira, with some bite in his voice, "No, he didn't say. We were standing outside of the bridal artist's establishment, he had seen Mr. Lawrence going inside and he asked what type of shop it was, and I of course, told him the truth."

Jazira felt as though she had stabbed in heart, and she clutched her chest. Mr. Lawrence on the other hand found it decidedly hard to keep from clapping his hands together jubilantly, things were working out better than he had planned. Excess energy must have shown on his face since Professor Ward was looking intently at him. Fortunately the clerk re-entered the office saying,

"Some dinner is being served in the courtyard. There is roast meat, rice and coffee. Perhaps not up to your taste, Miss, but adequately filling."

The clerk led the way in direction of the courtyard, and Mr. Lawrence extended an arm inviting Jazira to pass in front of him. When the door swung open, Jazira felt relief upon seeing Frank's mustang still tied up near her stallion. Wherever he was he had not gone so very far away. . .

Or so she had thought. Tucked away from the sight of Mr. Lawrence and Professor Ward in the curtained corner of the one room apartment, there had still been no sign of Frank and it had been dark now for several hours. Jazira felt hopelessly detached from her surroundings, and from the world itself. Little mattered to her, including the mission she had sacrificed too much for. She would see it through, of course, she was a woman of her word, but suddenly it and everything else had lost it's shine. As she lay in her sleeveless shift curled up under a thin woolen blanket on the large pillow mat, she felt entirely alone, much like she had when her father passed away. The dull ache was reborn and now multiplied. She could lay on this mat for an eternity, she could sleep for an eternity, it hardly mattered now. Frank was gone. She had not trusted him, perhaps he would have understood about the "marriage", but even now she doubted it. Frank didn't understand her need to help Mr. Lawrence's daughter, it was like rescuing herself. It was making her own choices, of coming back to Arabia as a free woman, the way she had been created. Only now, what did it matter? What was freedom without love? She had never hungered for freedom until she met Frank. She had dreamed of it, wanted it, but never before had she craved it, worked for it, sacrificed for it, fought for it. The belief that Frank Hopkins could love her, did love her, made freedom important and necessary. Her mind repeated--Frank is gone. Jazira didn't cry, she couldn't, she was too numb. And despite the bright moonlight that had found it's way into her corner of the room through that impossible window, she drifted into a nightmarish sleep.