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orchard where Rachel and Sahlah had shared childhood secrets. It was very English: tile-cladded, half-timbered, and diamond-paned in the fashion of another century. Its worn front door was studded with iron, its multiple chimneys were reminiscent of Hampton Court, and its detached garage—tucked at the back of the property—resembled a medieval fortress. To look at it, one would never guess that it was less than ten years old. And while one might conclude that its inhabitants were among the wealthiest people in Balford, one would also never guess that those same inhabitants took their origin in Asia, in a land of
mujahidin,
mosques, and
figh.
    Rachel's face was beaded with perspiration by the time she bumped over the kerb and cracked open the front gate. She gave a sigh of pure pleasure as she passed beneath the fresh-scented coolness of a willow tree. She stayed there a moment, telling herself it was to catch her breath but all the while knowing it was also to plan. In her twenty years, she'd never gone to the home of any recently bereaved who'd been dealt her bereavement in such a fashion as had her friend. And now she had to concentrate on what to say, how to say it, what to do, and how to act. The last mistake she wanted to make was to put a foot wrong with Sahlah.
    Leaving her bike propped against a garden urn abloom with geraniums, Rachel plucked the wrapped package from her basket and advanced on the front door. Carefully, she sought the best opening remarks.
I'm so terribly sorry … I came as soon as I could … I didn't want to phone ‘cause it seemed so impersonal
…
This changes things awfully … I know how you loved him.
…
    Except that last was a lie, wasn't it? Sahlah Malik hadn't loved her intended husband at all.
    Well, it was no matter now. The dead couldn't come back to demand an accounting of the living, and there was very little point to dwelling upon her friend's lack of feeling for a man who'd been chosen from complete strangers to be her spouse. Of course, he wouldn't
be
her spouse now. Which nearly made one think … But no. Rachel forced all speculation from her mind. With her package tucked under her arm, she rapped on the door.
    It swung open under her knuckles. As it did so, the unmistakable sound of cinematic background music rose over voices speaking a foreign tongue in the sitting room. The language was Urdu, Rachel guessed. And the film would be yet another catalogue purchase made by Sahlah's sister-in-law, who doubtless sat on a cushion in front of the video player in her usual fashion: with a bowl of soapy water in her lap and dozens of her gold bangles piled into it for a thorough wash.
    Rachel wasn't far off the mark. She called out, “Hullo? Sahlah?” and ventured to the sitting room doorway. There she found Yumn, the young wife of Sahlah's brother, seeing not to the care of her copious jewellery, but rather to the mending of one of her many
dupattās.
Yumn was sewing industriously upon the hem of this scarf, and she was making an inexpert hash of the effort.
    She gave a little shriek when Rachel cleared her throat. She threw her hands up and let the needle, the thread, and the scarf fly in three different directions. She was, unaccountably, wearing thimbles on every finger of her left hand. These flew off as well. “How you frightened me!” she exclaimed energetically. “Oh my goodness, my goodness, Rachel Winfield. And on
this
of all days, when
nothing
on earth should discompose me. The female cycle is a delicate thing. Has no one told you that?”
    Sahlah had always referred to her sister-in-law as born for RADA but bred for nothing. The former certainly appeared to be the truth. Rachel's entry had hardly been surreptitious. But Yumn seemed willing to milk it for whatever power its meagre spotlight offered. She was shining this light on her “female cycle,” as she called it, and she used her hands to cradle her stomach in the event that Rachel failed to catch her meaning.