Past the fragrant cloud seeping under the door of Iskender’s office and on to the workrooms, Khatoun pauses at the door. As soon as she enters, the sewing stops and the girls stand.
“Sit down,” Khatoun waves her hand at them, “or is it time for lunch already?” She crosses over to Margarit who is clutching a pair of shalvar.
“Beautiful work,” she tells her inspecting the bright coloured embroidery that circles the ankles.
Margarit smiles, “Peacocks. Like home.”
Khatoun traces the birds with her finger. When she looks up, the girls are still standing, watching her.
“What?” she asks. “What is it?”
One pair of eyes darts to the next, then the next, then the next. A chair creaks. Margarit takes the shalvar from Khatoun’s hand. “We heard you went to see the marches today.”
“I did.”
The r
