“Fortune? Is that what you call two bickering Ottoman officials banging down my door at dawn? My wife nearly had a heart attack.”
“So buy her some jewelry with the money.”
Yaqub shook his head. “And ambergris! You’re lucky I even had some in stock! What, could you not convince him to paint his door in molten gold?”
She shrugged, picking up one of the jars near his elbow and taking a delicate sniff. “They looked like they could afford it.”
“The younger one had quite an earful to say about you.”
“You can’t please everyone.” She picked up another jar, watching as he added some candlenut kernels to his mortar.
He put the pestle down with a sigh, holding his hand out for the jar, which she reluctantly handed back. “What are you making?”
“This?” He returned to grinding the kernels. “A poultice for the cobbler’s wife. She’s been dizzy.”
Nahri watched another moment. “That won’t help.”
“Oh, really? Tell me again, Doctor, who did you train under?”
Nahri smiled; Yaqub hated when she did this. She turned back to the shelves, hunting for the familiar pot. The shop was a mess, a chaos of unlabeled jars and supplies that seemed to get up and move on their own. “She’s pregnant,” she called over her shoulder. She picked up a vial of peppermint oil, swatting away a spider that crawled over the top.
“Pregnant? Her husband said nothing.”
Nahri pushed the vial in his direction and added a gnarled root of ginger. “It’s early. They probably don’t know yet.”
He gave her a sharp look. “And you do?”
“By the Compassionate, don’t you? She vomits loudly enough to wake Shaitan, may he be cursed. She and her husband have six children. You think they’d know the signs by now.” She smiled, trying to reassure him. “Make her a tea from these.”
“I haven’t heard her.”
“Ya, grandfather, you don’t hear me come in either. Maybe the fault lies with your ears.”
Yaqub pushed away the mortar with a disgruntled noise and turned to the back corner where he kept his earnings. “I wish you’d stop playing Musa bin Maimon and find yourself a husband. You’re not too old, you know.” He pulled out his trunk; the hinges groaned as he opened the battered top.
Nahri laughed. “If you could find someone willing to marry the likes of me, you’d put every matchmaker in Cairo out of business.” She pawed through the random assortment of books, receipts, and vials on the table, searching for the small enamel case where Yaqub kept sesame candies for his grandchildren, finally finding it beneath a dusty ledger. “Besides,” she continued, plucking out two of the candies, “I like our partnership.”
He handed her a small sack. Nahri could tell from its weight that it was more than her usual cut. She started to protest, but he cut her off. “Stay away from men like that, Nahri. It’s dangerous.”
“Why? The Franks are in charge now.” She chewed her candy, suddenly curious. “Is it true Frankish women go about naked in the street?”
The pharmacist shook his head, used to her impropriety. “French, child, not Frankish. And God prevent you from hearing such wickedness.”
“Abu Talha says their leader has the feet of a goat.”
“Abu Talha should stick to mending shoes . . . But don’t change the subject,” he said, exasperated. “I’m trying to warn you.”
“Warn me? Why? I’ve never even talked to a Frank.” That wasn’t for lack of effort. She’d tried selling amulets to the few French soldiers she’d encountered, and they’d backed away like she was some sort of snake, making condescending remarks about her clothing in their strange language.
He locked eyes with her. “You’re young,” he said quietly. “You have no experience with what happens to people like us during a war. People who are different. You should keep your head down. Or better yet, leave. What happened to your grand plans of Istanbul?”
After counting her savings this morning, the mere mention of the city soured her. “I thought you said I was being foolish,” she reminded him. “That no physician would take on a female apprentice.”
“You could be a midwife,” he offered. “You’ve delivered babies before. You could go east, away from this war. Beirut, perhaps.”
“You sound eager to be rid of me.”
He touched her hand, his brown eyes filled with concern. “I’m eager to see you safe. You’ve no family, no husband to stand up for you, to protect you, to—”
She bristled. “I can take care of myself.”
“—to advise you against doing dangerous things,” he finished, giving her a look. “Things like leading zars.”
Ah. Nahri winced. “I hoped you wouldn’t hear about those.”
“Then you’re a fool,” he said bluntly. “You shouldn’t be getting caught up in that southern magic.” He gestured behind her. “Get me a tin.”
She fetched one from the shelf, tossing it to him with a bit more force than was necessary. “There’s no ‘magic’ to it at all,” she dismissed. “It’s harmless.”
“Harmless!” Yaqub scoffed as he shoveled tea into the tin. “I’ve heard rumors about those zars . . . blood sacrifices, trying to exorcise djinn . . .”
“It’s not really meant to exorcise them,” Nahri corrected lightly. “More like an effort to make peace.”
He stared at her in utter exasperation. “You shouldn’t be trying to do anything with djinn!” He shook his head, closing the tin and rubbing warm wax over the seams. “You’re playing with things you don’t understand, Nahri. They’re not your traditions. You’re going to get your soul snapped up by a demon if you’re not more careful.”
Nahri was oddly touched by his concern—to think that just a few years ago he’d dismissed her as a black-hearted fraudster. “Grandfather,” she started, trying to sound more respectful. “You needn’t worry. There’s no magic, I swear.” Seeing the doubt on his face, she decided to be more frank. “It’s nonsense, all of it. There’s no magic, no djinn, no spirits waiting to eat us up. I’ve been doing my tricks long enough to learn none of it’s real.”
He paused. “The things I’ve seen you do—”
“Maybe I’m just a better trickster than the rest,” she cut in, hoping to assuage the fear she saw in his face. She didn’t need to scare off her only friend simply because she had a few strange skills.
He shook his head. “There are still djinn. And demons. Even scholars say so.”
“Well, the scholars are wrong. No spirit has come after me yet.”
“That’s very arrogant, Nahri. Blasphemous, even,” he added, looking taken aback. “Only a fool would speak in such a way.”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “They don’t exist.”
He sighed. “No one can say I didn’t try.” He pushed the tin over. “Give that to the cobbler on your way out, will you?”
Nahri pushed off the table. “Are you doing inventory tomorrow?” Arrogant she might be, but she rarely passed on an opportunity to learn more about the apothecary. Yaqub’s knowledge had greatly advanced her own instincts for healing.