EPILOGUE
THE JEWELLED CITY
Yousuf was standing in the damp remains of his booth. The last of the city's flames had been drenched by a torrential downpour in the small hours, and the whole city smelled charred and musty. He was poking cautiously through the piles with the surviving part of his broom-handle, hoping to find something – anything – that might be salvaged. So far, he had found nothing. Not even the strongbox had survived. Where it had been was a puddle of grubby orange alloy. Tears were sliding silently down his face.
Yousuf had been grateful when Maryam had announced she wouldn't be coming to the market with him. Apparently, she was required at Bagir's house, to visit his wife and her sister-in-law, who had lost a son in the blaze. He had hoped that the summons had included
