A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic (14 page)

A
BLACK KITE WHEELED
in the dust-gray sky. Leila watched the bird glide lazily, only bothering to flap its enormous wings when it was absolutely necessary to keep itself aloft. It didn't seem to be hunting, or doing anything in particular besides enjoying the feel of the air and the sun and the view from far above.

It wasn't lonely.

Not like Leila.

When Nadia brought up the idea of going to Kenya, she had told their parents that spending the summer in a foreign country would be “fun” and an “educational opportunity.” But, so far, Leila's own adventure had only taught her that she was much smaller than she had ever realized, and the world was much larger—and stranger.

Leila missed the afternoons she used to spend with Aimee, just leafing through magazines, gossiping about celebrities, discussing Dear Sisters books, munching Doritos, trying new hairstyles, watching movies. But those days were over, anyway.
Ta'Mara is your best friend now,
Leila scolded herself. It was true, in a way—Ta'Mara was the best friend Leila had. But Ta'Mara wasn't really Leila's Best Friend, and Leila knew it. Ta'Mara was nice, and she was funny, but she and Leila didn't always connect. Being with Ta'Mara was a bit like being in Lahore—unfamiliar enough to be slightly uncomfortable.

Here, nothing was easy. Leila didn't feel like she could just turn on the television without asking for permission, or even instructions, and even if she could, none of her favorite shows were on. She couldn't make her own snack without bothering the servants. She couldn't go anywhere without a strange magic book trailing after her, trying to get her to figure out what it was supposed to be about.

The sun beat down, making the air feel thin. It was hard to breathe. Still, air-conditioning gave Leila a headache, and the generators ensured that the Awans never had to endure the blazing heat. Babar Taya had insisted that
this was the coolest summer in the past ten years, but it was over 110 degrees, and so Leila scuttled between the too-cold indoors and the too-hot outside in an unending loop.

Still, Flower always seemed happy to see her. The silly goat would prance around at the end of her lead whenever Leila came into the yard. She had recovered quickly from her bout of Red Flower Disease, and was now back to her proud, prancey self. Leila patted her absently until she wandered off to stand on the edge of a rock. There were walls around the garden, and so Leila found herself looking at the sky.

A door creaked behind her, and Rabeea stepped out, pulling it closed behind her. “Where are you sneaking off to?” Leila asked.

Rabeea jumped at the sound of her voice. “What? Nowhere! I'm not sneaking! I didn't know you were out here.” She tucked her handbag under an arm and adjusted her peacock blue duputa. The straps of a cloth bag dangled from her wrist. The sun wasn't brilliant, but Rabeea's black hair was styled straight and gleamed across her stiff shoulders. “My mother knows I'm going out.”

“I was just kidding,” Leila replied. She felt her neck burning beneath the sun. Somehow, she always managed to say the wrong thing to Rabeea. It was more than just a language barrier; it was that Rabeea always assumed the worst possible interpretation for Leila's words.

“Oh,” Rabeea said. Then she turned and headed toward the car, motioning for the driver. She gave him the bag without glancing in his direction.

“Where are you going?” Leila asked, and Rabeea turned back to her.

Her eyes were guarded. “Shopping,” Rabeea replied.

“Hm.”

Rabeea sighed. “Do you want to come along?”

The goat butted at her leg. Leila shrugged. “Sure.”

Rabeea wished that she hadn't asked, and it showed, which sent a secret flash of joy through Leila. Besides, Leila didn't have anything to do except look at the sky and get all wrung out by the heat, and there was only so much of that she could take. Asif held the door for Rabeea, and Leila went around to the other side of the car and yanked open her own door. Asif smiled at her as he passed the window. She got the feeling that he found
her amusing. She didn't mind.

He rocketed through the gate and down the street. Several turns later, they maneuvered into traffic, where they had the usual death-defying experience of attempting to get through the congested streets of Lahore. Rabeea gave directions in machine gun Urdu, and Asif replied “Gee, hanh,” to everything as he steered around some obstacles and created others. Rabeea didn't speak a word to Leila, which was fine with her.

Finally, they pulled into the parking lot of a giant concrete building. It was the usual combination of shops and offices, and didn't look like it could have anything to offer a hardcore shopper like Rabeea. She took the cloth bag from Asif, and Leila followed her cousin toward a jewelry store. She was surprised when Rabeea passed it by, heading for a staircase beside the shop. Two men holding lit cigarettes watched as the girls climbed a flight of concrete stairs. Then they climbed another, and Leila followed Rabeea into an ugly and industrial gray hallway with windows that were simply empty squares cut from concrete. A pile of rough lumber was piled at one side, and many of the doors had numbers that were falling off.

“Where are we going?” Leila finally asked in a jagged gasp. She wasn't exactly sure where they were, and the place seemed deserted. She had the sudden fear that they were about to do something terrible.

Rabeea ignored her, and came to a stop in front of a wooden door bearing the number 333 below a pale blue circular window. Rabeea pushed open the door, and Leila stepped into a room with brilliant white walls hung with works of art—three large calligraphic paintings hung beside a portrait of two women in vibrant saris. At the center of the room was a golden sword on a pedestal, a brilliant blue butterfly perched at the tip of its blade. A pretty dark-eyed girl about Rabeea's age kneeled on the floor, wrapping a brown paper parcel. She was chatting with someone—a certain handsome, mischievous-haired boy—as he casually leaned against the wall, texting on his phone. He looked up when they walked in and gave them a smile.

“Took you long enough to get here,” Zain said. “Hey, Leila.” His eyes skimmed from her face to her shoes, then back up again, and Leila felt her heart fall to the floor, like she'd just shot upward on a fast elevator.

“Helaam,”
Leila muddled in a blend of Urdu and English, giggling nervously.

“It's not my fault we're late,” Rabeea snapped, clearly implying that it was Leila's fault, which was not true.

The girl wrapping the present smiled up at Rabeea, who bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek. They chatted excitedly in Urdu, and the girl gestured at a wall hung with sculptures made of nails welded together to look like faces.

“Shireen, do you know Leila?” Zain asked, yawning like a lazy cat.

“No.” There was an elegance in Shireen's voice that Leila admired, and her dark eyes sparkled. “As-salaam alaikum.” Shireen smiled shyly.

“Wa-alaikum asalaam,” Leila replied.

“Shireen, this is my cousin,” Rabeea said. “Shireen's mother owns the gallery.”

“I didn't know there were art galleries in Lahore.”

Rabeea looked at Leila as if she were a complete dolt. “Of
course
there are. Don't you know anything about Pakistani artists? Sadequain? Shahzia Sikander?”

“South Asia has a rich history,” Shireen said generously,
clearly trying to ease Leila's embarrassment. “And the art community is wonderful. Full of talent.”

“If you think a bunch of nails welded together and stuck on the wall is art,” Zain put in.

“Zain never likes the contemporary exhibitions,” Rabeea said. “He likes the old stuff.”

“What do you think of all this?” Zain waved his hand to include the entire gallery.

“I don't know anything about art.” Leila crossed to a wall to inspect a quartet of portraits. They were images of animals. “I like these.”

“One day, we'll have some of Rabeea's art on these walls,” Shireen said, smiling at her friend.

Rabeea held up the cloth bag. “I brought you the brushes.”

“You're into art?” Leila asked. “Seriously?”

“Rabeea is very talented!” Shireen laughed. “Didn't she tell you? She has been helping my mother with the classes she teaches at the orphanage. You're always so generous,” Shireen said to Rabeea as she accepted the bag of art supplies.

Leila remembered the moment in the car, when Rabeea
had told her not to give money to the poor. Leila had thought that she had a heart of granite. It had not occurred to her that the fact that Rabeea did not help
everyone
did not mean that Rabeea never helped
anyone
.

“I'm so glad those girls can paint with your mother. It means so much to them.” The sadness in Rabeea's voice touched Leila, and surprised her. She wondered what else Rabeea thought about, what else she might be hiding. Those questions embarrassed Leila, for the very fact that she never thought to ask them before.

Rabeea's eyes drifted to the portrait of two old women, their arms full of bangles. They were laughing. She gazed at the image as if it had taken her somewhere, as if she saw things in it beyond simply what was there, something so beautiful that it actually changed her face, softening it. Rabeea's glance made Leila want to experience the same thing. She looked more closely at the pictures on the wall before her. They were portraits of animals, each decorated with flowers and henna, and the artist had painted them so that you could really tell the personality of each. A camel gave a smug sideways smile, a bull stared aggressively at the viewer, a lamb looked sweet and innocent, and the last
one—a goat with red flowers in its forelock—had eyes that spoke of mischief. Shireen came and stood beside her. She was tall and graceful, and reminded Leila of a willow tree.

“Do you like it?” Shireen asked.

“That one looks like Flower,” Leila said. “My goat.”

“You have a goat?” Rabeea asked, coming over to join them.

“Well—
your
goat. The goat I bought. I call her Flower because she has a henna flower on her leg. I got her for Eid,” she explained to Shireen. “She got sick, but she's better now.”

“What was wrong with her?” Shireen asked.

“It ate something,” Rabeea explained. “A plant. Chirragh says it will be no problem for Eid.”

“Chirragh makes the most delicious goat.” Zain smiled, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, this goat isn't for eating,” Leila said quickly. “She's for Eid.”

Zain laughed as Rabeea and Shireen exchanged a glance.

“She's a
gift
,” Leila explained. “A pet.”

“Oh,” Shireen said, turning wide eyes to Rabeea.

“Don't be stupid,” Rabeea snapped at Leila.

Zain pursed his lips, but Leila could tell that he was suppressing a smile. Her stomach clenched cold, like fingers over ice.

Flower is a pet,
she thought.
Right?

Right?

Rabeea stared at her a moment, as if she was about to say something more. Then she seemed to think better of it, and took a deep breath. She turned to the sword at the center of the room. “This is incredible,” she said as she walked away.

“It's hand-forged,” Shireen told her, trailing after her friend.

Zain's mouth twisted into a smirk that made Leila shudder, so she looked away from him, back at the animal portraits. Then she turned to an image of a sky full of colorful kites. A placard explained about Basant, a kite festival that inspired the image.

Zain watched Rabeea inspect each piece. The way he smiled at Rabeea told Leila everything she needed to know about why he was at the gallery in the first place.

Leila was not the star of a Dear Sisters romance. Rabeea might be, but she wasn't. So much for
that
adventure.

Once they had looked at the art, Zain took everyone out for sweets and tea. Leila wasn't hungry. Leila didn't ask Rabeea anything else about the goat, not even on the drive home. She couldn't bear it.

And so they were silent, each lost in her own thoughts.

That night, Leila found Samir in the library. He was lying on the couch, propped up with a mountain of pillows snatched from every chair in the room. “Hello,” he said cheerfully, putting aside his book.

“Where is everyone?” Leila asked.

“Downstairs,” he replied. “They're announcing the top ten on
Pakistan Idol
.”

“You're not watching?”

“I only watch the shows where they sing.” Samir settled back against the pillows. “I detest the elimination shows.”

Leila looked around the room, and considered asking a few questions about the desk, the books, anything. But that wasn't why she had come looking for Samir. There was no point in putting it off any longer, and even though she suspected that she knew the answer, she had to force
herself to ask the words. “What is Eid al-Adha?”