Three days after the trial, Ibrahim Al-Zahra's heart stopped.
The doctors said it was the strain. The neighbors said it was the shame. Layla knew it was simply that he had run out of things to trade for his survival.
They buried him on a Tuesday. Layla stood at the graveside, wearing black, her face dry and hard as marble. She was now the mistress of the Al-Zahra house—a house of debt and echoes.
That evening, the Pasha came.
He did not knock. His soldiers pushed open the gates, and he walked into the courtyard, the heels of his boots clicking on the tiles.
Layla sat on the bench by the fountain. She did not rise.
"My condolences," the Pasha said, smoothing his mustache. "It is a tragedy. A woman alone... it is not safe."
"I am not alone," Layla said, staring at the water. "I have my ghosts."
"Ghosts cannot pay creditors," the Pasha said, walking around the fountain. "Your father's debts are now yours, Layla. The house is mine. The furniture is mine." He stopped behind her, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "You are mine."
"The wedding," he continued, "will be tomorrow. Quiet. Private. You will move to the palace."
Layla reached into her sleeve. Her hand closed around a small glass vial. It contained essence of oleander, distilled by an apothecary who asked no questions.
She stood up and turned to face him. She pulled the vial out and held it up to the moonlight.
"If you touch me," she said, her voice devoid of fear, "I will drink this. If you force me to the palace, I will drink this. If you try to take me, you will hold only a corpse."
The Pasha stared at the vial. Then he looked at her eyes. They were dead eyes. There was no light in them, no fear, no hope. Just a vast, empty silence.
He laughed.
"You think death is an escape?" he sneered. "No. I will not let you die. That is too easy."
He stepped back. He looked around the crumbling courtyard.
"You want to stay here? Fine. Stay. Rot in this house. I will post guards at the gate. No one enters. No one leaves. You will sell nothing. You will buy nothing. You will watch the paint peel and the roof collapse."
He turned to his soldiers. "Leave her. Let her be the queen of the ruins."
The Pasha stormed out. The heavy gates slammed shut. The bolt slid home.
Layla was alone.
She looked at the vial. She looked at the blue thread she had hidden in the wall—the thread she had retrieved and now wore tied around her finger like a wedding band.
She uncorked the vial and poured the poison into the fountain. The water turned cloudy for a moment, then cleared.
"I will wait," she whispered to the empty house.
She sat back down on the bench. She picked up her embroidery hoop. She began to stitch. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. The neighbors began to whisper about the "Mad Woman of the Silk District," the woman who never left her house, who sat in the garden talking to the wind, waiting for a traveler who would never return.