“He came here, you know. Your friend.” She takes another drag and casts her eye around the table. “About a month ago. Dressed like some Arab. Didn’t tell me his name, but I knew. Said he was a friend of our sister Loucia’s.”
“Don’t talk rubbish,” Iskender says, ash dropping from his lips. “Now everybody knows this Mgrdich?” He pats at the ash with his finger, working it into the grain of the wood. Ferida ignores him and continues with her story.
“He was looking for Khatoun. When I said she wasn’t available he gave me a basket to give to her. Said it was bread and could she carry it to Mariam Hanum in the Armenian Quarter.”
“Mgrdich’s sister,” Aram mumbles.
“Exactly,” Ferida rolls her eyes.
“And?” Iskender asks. “What did you do?”
“What do you think I did? I took it. He said they need
