Walk
Ourfa, August 1915
Khatoun
A dove croons above, making them start. Begum Șenay looks up and frowns at the pale pink streaks threading the sky.
“That’s deep enough,” she murmurs, “you can stop now.”
The gardener empties his shovel, leaps out of the hole and scrapes his boots clean at the side. Begum Șenay smiles graciously and leans into his neck.
“You know I’ll be wearing your balls as a necklace if anyone hears of this.”
The gardener nods, steps back a pace and relights the cigarette he’d tucked behind his ear. The dug earth smells fresh, edible. Khatoun stands amongst the shadows behind Begum Șenay, her arms around Hripsime, who droops around the bundle in her arms, protecting it from the night air. The shadows sigh, the dove flutters to the ground and a light breeze stirs up
