Cinnamon Read Free Page B

from life. I just want her to come back.’
    As Hanan sat on the floor, out of the mirror there stepped an old woman whose appearance was much like her own. It was her mother, emerging from the depths, scowling straight at her daughter. Frightened, Hanan pulled the sheets over her head once more just as Aliyah had done as she fled the streak of light.
    Hanan heard the howl of the wind once more and her mother vanished with the billowing curtains.

    Every now and then, Aliyah looked back towards her mistress’s window, hoping it would open suddenly, Hanan waving out, calling her to return. But the window stayed shut, and her high heels were of little use in helping her to walk steadily.
    Aliyah felt the cold make her skin quiver. Her bag was heavy. She wasn’t sure exactly what she had thrown inside before leaving. She remembered slipping the photograph in first – a faded photograph with tattered edges – and four old volumes of her favourite title: A Thousand and One Nights . Aliyah had never forgotten the name in all of the years she had spent in her mistress’s service. She had stolen the book by stealth, after she had been forbidden to enter the library; from it she had learnt how to draw the stories in pictures. She called the book ‘the grandmother’ after the television had shown her the power of grandmothers to turn their tasks into acts of domestic magic when they told stories to their grandchildren. Aliyah would dream that she was a spoilt granddaughter, whose grandmother would put on her gold-rimmed reading glasses, sit next to her copper-framed bed and tell her stories. In the middle of the night, she turned her fantasy to reality.
    This dream had prompted Aliyah to create a little theatre on her bed. She would hold the book, sitting dignified, like a grandmother. Then, putting on the glasses which she had stolen from her mistress’s chest of drawers, she would gently clear her throat and read, her voice soft but clear. The glasses caused a few problems; they were sunglasses, with dark lenses which made it difficult to read. So that the tinted lenses wouldn’t obstruct her view, Aliyah pushed the glasses to the end of her nose. Then she would read, pausing between passages to look to her left and talk to her imaginary granddaughter Aliyah. After they had finished their conversation, she would put the book aside, lie down and plead with her grandmother not to stop reading until the night was over and Scheherazade saw the light of day. Aliyah had memorised all of the stories in the book and knew all of the characters. She would weep for the beautiful princesses and for the lovers and, day by day, she became ever more infatuated with the heroine. She longed to act like Scheherazade, if only there were someone who’d take notice!
    Aliyah no longer just narrated the stories; she had become talented at drawing them and acting them out. Sometimes she would mutter the spells she had memorised to ward off evil spirits and keep herself safe. She would play the wicked sorceress, guarding a sullen expression throughout the day as she peered at those around her with apprehension and suspicion. Every now and then, Aliyah would exhale all of the air from her lungs in one great breath, like a dragon. This, amongst other things, made the cook keep her distance; she swore to her husband that the filthy, black servant girl was mad, that she’d been possessed by the Djinn.
    The book became Aliyah’s secret garden. She couldn’t bear to leave it behind, even though it was heavy and the pages were tattered, even though she was afraid that the master and mistress would accuse her of theft. It didn’t matter; she would take it with her. She wrapped it up in a few shirts and tossed it into the bottom of her bag. On top of the book she put her drawings of the stories she had memorised, which she had stored secretly, along with the red velvet, gold-rimmed notebook. Aliyah had held on