Chapter 7
María’s feet had once been so tough. They had been hardened by goat-tracks and threshing-floors, and by the beaten earth of the hut where she and Jaime had found shelter after the Death took their mother and father. With those feet María could out-run and out-climb her brother any day. Jaime was younger than her, of course, but not much, and he was a boy.
Now she realized how much they hurt, those feet that used to be María’s. Until tonight she’d never run in her life as Lubna. María’s feet had turned into Lubna’s, cocooned in Cordoban slippers, caressed by carpets, tucked under her when she sat, neat as a cat on a cushion, her fingers chasing taqsims up and down the lute-strings.
Tonight, though, Lubna had run, run until the rock had ripped her bare feet ragged. Where she had
