Beatrice took a step back, but Ibrahim did not move. They shared a long, aching moment of mutual regard.
“It is … good to see you,” he murmured.
Beatrice felt her hard expression soften, her breath catch, and her color rise. “And you.”
Ibrahim took up his stack of books and strode into the room. Iris was singing softly to herself, the remains of her breakfast set aside. At his entrance, her mouth fell open.
“You’re one, too!” she cried, raising both Beatrice’s and Ibrahim’s eyebrows. “You, too, were saved from death to live a life of glory and service!” She smiled, radiant. “Don’t be surprised, sir. I know things.”
This effusive, unexpected greeting made Ibrahim chuckle, and Beatrice hurried to introduce them, thankful the dear girl hadn’t batted an eyelash at the entrance of a foreigner. “Iris Parker, Mr. Ibrahim Wasil-Tipton.”
“But you may call me Ibrahim, Miss Parker. You remind me of a friend of ours. Ahmed. He, too, is full of joy and mysterious knowledge.”
The girl stared at him. Then she said, “Iris then, please. We must all be friends here—friends brought together by wondrous fate. And you have brought books! Oh, you must promise to read to me, Ibrahim. I adore being read to.
“I never learned to read,” Iris explained. “The sisters tried during my first few years in the convent, but I could not manage it. Then I fell in with sinners and had no one to teach me. But now I’ve found saints.”
Ibrahim looked unsure what to say and finally stammered, “I … I’m here to help. I understand you are plagued by spirits.”
“Oh, they’re no bother, really. I think they’re here for the baby. Did Beatrice tell you? She’s very special, the baby. Beatrice, too, of course, but the baby was heralded by our Lady. Where are you from? Do you have a Holy Mother in your land?”
Her innocent curiosity was irresistible. Ibrahim smiled. “I am from Egypt. But I do know of our Lady.”
“Egypt?” Iris repeated, wide-eyed. “Have you come all that way to help me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I think it might be best for you and the child not to be too long surrounded by the dead. They can be taxing. For that reason I’ve brought some … recommended reading.” Stacking the books on the room’s desk, he selected a thin periodical. “Household Words. Dickens.” He turned to Beatrice. “Do you think ghosts like ghost stories?”
Beatrice laughed despite herself, fighting back tears. She felt like Elinor in Austen’s Sense and Sensibility at the moment she had found out Edward was free for her to love. She wanted desperately to leave the room and sob with happiness. It was so good to see Ibrahim, to be near him. All felt right with the world. Prophecy was unfolding like a flower.
Then the ghosts swooped in.
Iris shuddered at the sudden chill. The horde surrounded the bed like nurses around the dying, only these were not administering aid. Iris tried to pretend she wasn’t startled, but the pendant around her neck began to glow. Beatrice believed it was the goddess’s power, trying to keep Iris safe. The ghosts were not ill-intentioned, but their energy was frantic and overwhelming.
Ibrahim nodded. “Well, I suppose it’s time to try my hand,” he said.
Before he could open the volume he already held, Beatrice said, “Do try Rumi, Ibrahim. I miss him as much as I miss our friends. As much as I miss Cairo.”
“You miss Cairo?”
“Of course I do, that hasn’t changed. I miss our home,” she replied.
Ibrahim’s face lit up as he exchanged Dickens for the poet and began to read. Warmth flooded through Beatrice as well; for a moment they both seemed caught by the idea of their home.
As Ibrahim spoke, the ghosts dispersed. Perhaps certain texts contained power of their own, or perhaps Ibrahim retained some of what he’d been. Either way, the reading was effective. It seemed to Beatrice that Iris breathed a bit easier.
“That was lovely!” the pregnant woman said. “Would you read some prayers to me? Do you believe in God, Mr. Wasil-Tip—Ibrahim? Do you mind?”
Ibrahim answered slowly. “In God? Let us say that Beatrice and I call ourselves people of spirit.”
Finding a Christian Bible, he began reading various annunciations. From that he moved to the Quran, about which Iris showed intense curiosity. She listened in awe until she fell into a peaceful nap convinced that there were angels of all faiths, goodness of many shapes and beauties.
Once she was safely resting, Beatrice motioned Ibrahim out into the hallway. She had to know about the fullness of his intent.
“Do you plan to stay for the remainder of this duty?”
Ibrahim nodded. “I told you, I want to help.”
Beatrice waited, her gaze daring him to say more.
He looked away. “Cairo was not the same without you. Still … I fear your life being cut short.” He gestured to his head, then his heart. “I feel—”
“Ibrahim. It’s been a harrowing, grim few months. I’ve seen wondrous, terrible things. The goddess’s tasks nearly destroyed her. One day to the next, we’re never guaranteed life. Tell me,” she implored him, “Persephone once intimated something, and Iris just repeated it. The day James Tipton died, do you believe the Grand Work saved your life?”
“I know it did.”
Beatrice nodded, feeling phantom blue flame caress her heart. “And for that gift, for the gift of your life, the Grand Work is worth all its sacrifices. But”—she trembled as she dared prompt—“can we not choose how far we allow such sacrifices to rule and inform our hearts?”
She waited for him to speak, to acknowledge his love for her. To grant that they were meant for each other. She waited for him to reveal what she hoped he felt in his heart, what it seemed like his journey here proved. But though he stared at her and she thought she glimpsed something simmering in his expression, he said nothing.
Beatrice straightened her shoulders and spine. “The sister at the door can direct you to an inn. Rest well tonight, and we’ll begin the final leg of our journey on the morrow.”
At the door of Iris’s room, she paused and turned back. “It is … very good to see you, Ibrahim. Good day.”
That was the best she could manage to his face, though in her heart she said a thousand things more.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
The weeks that followed were both joyous and heart-wrenching. Ibrahim, Beatrice, and Iris traveled together. The women stayed at convents; Ibrahim stayed at inns nearby. They did not speak again of feelings. At last they came to York and the Institute of the Blessed Virgin Mary. All was progressing according to divine decree. As one final assurance, they would not go to the Bar Convent until the very last moment, when Iris, obviously close to delivery, could not possibly be turned away.
Drawing near the place, intending to make arrangements for them all at the inn across the street, Beatrice caught a glimmer in the air, something only eyes accustomed to strange sights could see. It seemed there was a bit of Liminal shelter over those Georgian convent walls; a thin, sparkling parasol under which a strangely beautiful, colorless flower would magically grow.
Late that night, Ibrahim sat in the corner of Iris’s room, reading aloud as he had every night since he’d joined them, both to entertain her and keep the ghosts at bay. Iris was a wonderful audience, laughing, sighing, and crying, and if Beatrice wasn’t mistaken, Ibrahim thoroughly enjoyed her responses and occasional hypotheses. She yearned for him to turn that pleased gaze upon her, but their quiet amiability persisted.
Iris requested more of Mrs. Gaskell, having loved her ghost stories in magazines prior. They had nearly gone through Ibrahim’s whole array of material and it was time for Gaskell’s serialized North and South. Written more than a decade prior, it showcased two very different worlds and stubborn persons.
There were moments when Ibrahim sat stiffly in one corner of the room and Beatrice stiffly in the other, Iris lying in rapture between them. During these periods Beatrice was struck on more
than one level by the story, yearning for its two stubborn characters to give in to each other. Sitting opposite Ibrahim during the recitation became unbearable, a painful rapture where her whole body tensed as though one simple touch might entirely break her.
They neared the end of the tale. Ibrahim was reading the strained financial proposition from Margaret Hale upon John Thornton’s mill, a conversation between two people who were desperately in love but who refused to show it.
“‘“Mr. Lennox drew me out a proposal,”’” Ibrahim read quietly. “‘“I wish he was here to explain it—showing that if you would take some money of mine, eighteen thousand and fifty-seven pounds, lying just at this moment unused in the bank, and bringing me in only two and a half percent—you could pay me much better interest and might go on working Marlborough Mills.” Her voice had cleared itself and become more steady. Mr. Thornton did not speak, and Miss Hale went on looking for some paper on which were written down the proposals for security; for she was most anxious to have it all looked upon in the light of a mere business arrangement, in which the principal advantage would be on her side.’”
Beatrice stood, agitated. She could hear no more.
Ibrahim glanced up, so she blushingly gazed down at Iris, mopping her brow, relieved and satisfied that the young woman was sleeping comfortably. She hurried to inform him, “She’s dreaming. I daresay she’d not want to miss the ending of the tale, and we’re not far from that, are we?” Beatrice could not meet his eyes.
“We are not.”
“Shall Mr. Thornton and Miss Hale end their stubborn charade or no?” Beatrice drew a pained breath. “I suppose we’ll have to see tomorrow. The end must come, just as it must for the goddess’s own tale. At least, our part of it. Soon the child will come, which will mark the finale of our duty.”
Ibrahim laid the magazine aside, his face thoughtful. He said nothing, just took up his tea.
Too much to bear. Beatrice fled to her rooms, needing to cool her face and be alone. The sooner this business was done, the better. Ibrahim could go back to Cairo, for clearly he had not come to claim her. If he had, he’d have unclasped his heart at some point, rather than maintaining such maddening distance.
Was he so afraid, still, that he would be the death of her? Life and death were ever precarious where the Grand Work was concerned.
Pacing the room, she did not notice the door open or the figure standing tall in the doorway until a voice continued reading; “‘While she sought for this paper, her very heart-pulse was arrested by the tone in which Mr. Thornton spoke. His voice was hoarse, and trembling with tender passion as he said, “Margaret!”’”
Beatrice turned to see Ibrahim standing on the threshold, a smoldering light in his eyes, magazine in hand. He stepped toward Beatrice as he kept reading. “‘For an instant she looked up and then sought to veil her luminous eyes by dropping her forehead on her hands. Again, stepping nearer, he besought her with another tremulous eager call upon her name. “Margaret!”’”
Ibrahim drew nearer. She could feel the warm heat of him, could taste the scent of myrrh oil that faintly hung around him, delectable, could feel his breath on her cheek as he continued reading.
“‘Still lower went the head; more closely hidden was the face, almost resting on the table before her. He came close to her. He knelt by her side, to bring his face to a level with her ear and whisper-panted out the words: “Take care. If you do not speak I shall claim you as my own in some strange presumptuous way. Send me away at once if I must go…”’” Here Ibrahim paused. He leaned in, his body brushing hers, and the final call was not Mr. Thornton’s but his own.
“Beatrice…”
She turned her head, wondering if her eyes were luminous as Mrs. Gaskell had described. Her expression betrayed her anticipation, she was sure, for her body ached for his touch.
He lifted the magazine once more so that he might read it over her shoulder as he stood so unbearably close, his breath upon her ear. “‘At that third call she turned her face, still covered with her small white hands, toward him, and laid it on his shoulder, hiding it even there; and it was too delicious to feel her soft cheek against his, for him to wish to see either deep blushes or loving eyes. He clasped her close. But they both kept silence.’”
Ibrahim dropped the magazine. He cupped her warm cheeks in his cool hands and pressed his lips gently but firmly to hers. The taste of tea, the smell of incense and priceless myrrh … The soft press of his lips grew hungrier. Their long fight against the magnetism that had been drawing them together from the first was at an end; they could not resist crashing greedily against each other.
They drew back to breathe deep, to shudder, but it was merely a pause in their mutual surrender.
“Mrs. Gaskell was a savant. Keep more silence with me,” Beatrice whispered, then drew him into another kiss that sent them to the divan to press as close as layers of clothing would allow.
After a time during which sighs and soft gasps flew from Beatrice’s lips, Ibrahim spoke softly into her ear.
“The man who raised me gave me every opportunity. He never forced me to be like him or his colleagues; he gave me fine, upstanding examples of men and women within my culture, both devout and secular, sent me to be educated in my native tongue and planned that I would live as my people do. And I resented them all because none of them were truly like me. Nothing was truly mine.”
Beatrice opened her mouth to say, then let me be yours, but her damnable pride had her saying, “I’ve always wondered if you resent me.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say, Beatrice,” he corrected her. “I never thought I was meant for love, for passion. Certainly not with a woman like you.” His breath was hot against her forehead. “Working with a woman like you, deferring to a woman like you—”
“You’ve never deferred to me a moment in your life,” she exclaimed.
“Wanting a woman like you.” He traced a fingertip from her throat to the edge of her bodice, and Beatrice shivered with desire. “Perhaps it’s time for us both to defer to the higher calling.”
“And what might that be?” she breathed.
“Passion. Will you be mine, Miss Smith? Would you make a home with me? All that should have kept us apart, the Grand Work erased. Culturally, religiously, ideologically—it literally gave me new life. Would you give me, at last, a place to belong and someone to belong to?”
This was everything she’d wanted. Dared she trust it? “You no longer think you’ll be the death of me? Aren’t you afraid to take my hand?”
He ran his fingers up her body and pulled her fully against him. “Does it look like I’m afraid to take your hand? The Grand Work may be the death of us all, but it already saved my life, saved me from a deadly house fire on the day we were called. It is as you said. If we’re living on borrowed time, we might as well live fully.”
“Finally we agree,” she said, fully relaxing against him, feeling all the mortar of their stubborn walls turn to powder at their feet.
Physical vows were torturously slow and delicious in the making; gentle, sacred acts; delicate promises of the life they would yet share. For one night, the dread press of fate was abandoned for the duty of the heart.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
A storm gathered, black clouds forming a ring around the convent where Iris Parker would soon breathe her last. Above the convent itself, the sky was clear, but it shimmered with that particular light Beatrice had come to expect from the Liminal.
Iris knew it was time. She asked Beatrice to write a letter from her to her daughter. Words of faith and love—and some instruction for good measure. Beatrice held Iris’s hand when that was finished, promising to do her best to see it was delivered. Ibrahim kissed Iris’s brow and Beatrice’s in turn, then left them to their silent vigil as they waited for the time to take Iris to the convent.
He had been quiet and gentle since his and Beatrice’s passionate foray, but they’d spoken n
ot a word about their future. Beatrice couldn’t be troubled by it, not when Iris was her present concern and needed her aid.
At last the pains began, and they left the inn.
“There is something of safety about that place,” Iris gasped between contractions. Beatrice nodded. “I believe our Lady offered it a particular benediction.”
The swarming ghosts were agitated, billowing like sails in a squall. They hovered all around them as Beatrice led Iris to the convent door. She glanced at the carriage where she knew Ibrahim waited outside the convent walls with texts in hand. If she needed him, she’d call for him. But this was a woman’s threshold.
Beatrice knocked boldly. Iris leaned upon her, gasping.
A young nun opened the door, her habit a dress of simple gray with a coif. Beatrice didn’t wait upon niceties.
“Hello, I’m Beatrice. This is Iris, and she needs your help.”
“You are the one whose coming was foretold,” the sister murmured.
“Ah, it’s good to be expected.” Beatrice helped Iris into the plain foyer as the doorkeeper excused herself to summon the mother superior.
An older, plump, ruddy-cheeked woman, the picture of authoritarian kindness, was already rounding the corner. “So it is, so it is,” she said.
The sisters provided Iris with a room and the assistance of those trained in such matters of the body. Beatrice was content that Iris was in good care. The general compassion and lack of prejudice was comforting and made her rethink her opinion of the Church. It had its flaws, as did every institution. But here, in this place, women’s magic was rife. Though they’d hardly call it magic. It was faith, firmly wielded.
Iris shared passionate prayers with the sisters. No one bothered Beatrice, no one asked her relation, no one hurried her away; she took a chair in the corner, sitting with her hands clasped in anxiety. She wished Ibrahim could be there to read soothing things of beauty to her, but that would hardly have been proper. As unusual as this birth was, they couldn’t attract any more undue attention.
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