Maha had spent most of her morning cataloging her supplies. To her despair, she was alarmingly low on almost every important supply she needed, and she had no way of replenishing many of them. Some of the herbs were just a walk in the woods away, but bandages? She could hardly pick those off trees.

At least she had a place to stay for the next few nights. She had come to an agreement with the innkeeper; a few doses of Lady’s Ankle, and she was free to stay. She would probably be able to work food into the bargain later tonight, and if not, well, she wasn’t a botanist for nothing.

She had an afternoon to get something done; hopefully, she could sell something. The state of her supplies worried her too much. She had to replenish them soon. If that boy had come to her last night, and she did not have any bandages, what would she have done? Used his dirty shirt, that’s what.

Cases like the boy unnerved her. Cuts and bruises, she could deal with. Anyone could deal with those. She had been taught to set bones by a strange old woman some years ago, and she had enough experience to set a bone and make a splint. But amputations? That was far beyond her training. All she had was the faraway memory of her cousin’s foot and her common sense. Maha knew medicine was not so simple or unskilled a labor; one of these days, someone was going to die from her lack of training.

As Maha descended the inn stairs, she reviewed her plans for the rest of the day. In the evening, she would have to check up on the boy and make sure his hand wasn’t rotting off. Before that, she should find a painkiller for him. She knew a willow bark infusion that even he could make. But before she even thought about finding that recipe, she would have to find some way of making money.

They had been getting suspicious in Newbury. Not that Thomas's Judaism was a problem. That was a quiet affair, Friday nights, muttered prayers, and furtive shabbats. And now Justinius was gone, gone, gone, off to play soldier at the border. It broke Thomas's heart. At least Lawley was close enough to the border that he could stop by and see him occasionally. Perhaps the army had need of another physician, though Thomas was far too old and creaky to enlist himself. Besides, he was stooped, clumsy, and nearsighted--he wouldn't last a week.

Isaac was safe in his apprenticeship back in Newbury. Thomas could only hurt him by staying, and besides, he could visit. At thirteen, Isaac was really old enough to be on his own, and he reminded him far, far too much of Avia. It was for the best.

Besides, it was come here or give up his nighttime plundering, and he could not do that. He learned so much with each new study, and he was nearly done with his complete set of drawings cataloguing the human body: all of its parts, all of its organs, all the veins, all the muscles. He had a full set of sketches: male and female. He even had a drawing of a pregnant woman, though her death had cut at him. Saving the child would have been impossible, but that tiny death, too... still, their deaths had paved the way for more lives, Thomas was sure, more lives to be saved.

He tied up his old horse and carried in his pack of medical supplies and, most precious of all, his Indian Steel surgical implements, brought with him from Parsa.

When he walked into the inn, tired and dusty from travel, his eyes flew wide open at what he saw. An Arabian woman, and wearing the hijab, no less! Reflexively, he spoke to her in Arabic. "Greetings. Peace be with you."

“Assalam alaikum.”

The greeting was so embedded in Maha’s mind, she replied without thinking. “Wa alaikum assalam… Ah!” Her response was so reflexive that she almost didn’t catch herself speaking it. Arabic, the language of her home. Home? Ali! She rushed to the man he had greeted her. “You! You speak Arabic! Are you a messenger from Ali? Tell me now!” It was rude, incredibly rude of her, but she was so excited she could not hold herself back. It had to be a messenger from Ali; why else would he be here speaking in Arabic to her?

He was a strange looking man for a messenger, but maybe Ali had sent this man because he would blend in more easily. How clever Ali was! Another Arab would have stuck out too much, would have caused more trouble. Bright, beautious Ali; the same cleverness he used to send her this specific messenger had been used to keep him out of the rebellion’s way. Maybe the messenger had news of the rest of her family, of Mother and Father and Samira. Had Samira married yet? She was of age, now, wasn’t she? Maha was so excited, she almost missed the man’s reply.

Thomas knew well the look of hope that transcended reason. This woman had it. And she obviously missed her home--but Thomas was no purveyor of hope, real or counterfeit.

"I am sorry," he said, in quiet, careful Arabic, the language he had worked for painstaking years to acquire so he could study medicine with the best there were. The best, but still not good enough. Never good enough. "I don't know Ali. I have been here for some years now. I'm sorry," he said again. "If anything, you must have news from the country..."

In truth, his heart twisted in his chest at the thought of it. He had tried not to recall the place where he'd buried a wife and child, but it haunted his dreams and nightmares. But he couldn't stop thinking about it. Imagining if... if... he might have stayed at the College of Medicine to teach, or...

It struck him like cold water then that by talking to this Arabian woman he might have doomed himself. Bad enough to be a Jew, but worse to be suspected a Muslim. Still--it was too late now. And she appeared to survive unmolested in any case.

"May I ask how, and why, you are here? And your name, perhaps? I am Thomas Finch--" He had almost used the Jewish name he had gone by in Arabia, Tomer ben Nachman, but he had restrained himself. "It's probably better to speak Scalian, if you can," he continued, more cautiously, looking around.

He was not Ali. Maha was nearly brought to her knees--her brother, even after almost five years of waiting, had still not sent for her. This man was not her deliverance; but if he wasn’t then who would be? Surely, neither her family nor Allah himself had left her to rot on this island?

No, it couldn’t be that. She knew that she had not been the best of women, but this was not the fate of a true believer, even if she had not practiced in many years. Surely, Allah would understand. He was the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate. This must be a lesson in patience for her, of endurance. When she returned to Arabia, she would be a better woman, having learned these virtues. She must go on the Pilgrimage once she returned, to make up for all the time she had lost.

“Ahh, please excuse my rudeness, ustaz. It’s just I know of no other person here who can speak Arabic here on this island.” The language of God, the language of home. “I have been merely expecting a letter from my brother, Ali, for quite some time now.” Here, she switched back to Scalian. “My parents, they were caught up in the overthrow of Emir Khaled, praise be upon him, and I believe the only person left in my family to recover me is Ali.

“But it has been even more rude of me to not introduce myself! Please, I am Maha bint Amr. I was born and raised in Damask; the very pearl of Arabia, but when I was younger, I was sent away by my father to travel with the good Mohammed Ibn al-Qais to study the plants of Scalia—my family studies botany, you see. But with the rebellion in Damask, it is unsafe for me to return. But you, Ustaz Thomas, must have a fascinating story. You are from here, yes? Then how is it you know the most glorious language of my people?”

"I'm from Scalia," Thomas said. He carefully set down his bag and stretched his aching back; this might become a longer conversation than he had thought. How strange. He had never thought to encounter this part of his past again, and yet here she had appeared, this Arabian woman. "Emir Khaled is dead?" He frowned. "I was aware of no instability when I was last in the area, but it's been many years..." He shook his head. "I was in Arabia studying at the maristan in Parsa, so I was never involved in politics." And besides, it was hard enough being a dhimmi in Parsa, where Muslims made up the overwhelming majority of the population, without taking sides in political squabbles.

"They were kind enough to let me stay there, and even offered me a position teaching medicine, but after I saw the city through a plague, I had to leave. The popular emotion was turning against my sort of people." Let her imagine he was a Christian. They had blamed it on the Jews too, anyway--as well as the tiny and beleaguered population of Christians left from the Camarian Empire--and why not? People were scared. They'd think anything to believe they could stave off the terrible hand of God.

He had really left, in any case, to flee the memory of his wife and child. It had been nice to be among a Jewish community, and he'd given that up coming back here, but every face was a reminder anyway. Even hers was a reminder, and she was a stranger stranded her, more of a minority than he had been there.

"But it must be hard for you here. Thiasans aren't always tolerant. Come, sit down, have something to drink with me. Please?"

And there it was. Beneath the hard shell of his self-imposed solitude and forgetfulness, Thomas was lonely.

Maha laughed. “Neither was I, but I was just a young girl when I was last in Arabia, and it wasn’t my place to know the details of politics.” It still wouldn’t, if she hadn’t left. Unless, of course, she had married a politician or a judge. But she liked to imagine that her husband would have been a man of science, one who would understand her fascination with the natural world. If his name was Nabil, then she imagined he would have been the perfect husband for her. She had always been quite fond of the name Nabil—if she had children, she would name one Nabil or Nabila.

“At the maristan? Traveling all the way from Scalia to Parsa, just to study? That must have been quite the journey. I never did visit Parsa, personally. One of my maternal cousins moved there, though, after she married. She said it was a wonderful city, with public gardens just as lovely as the ones in Damask. But Scalia, I did study there for some years. Somewhat more civilized then here, I will admit.” Maha was rambling; now she was nervous. Her few ventures into medicine in Thiasa could be overlooked by the native Thiasans who didn’t know any better, but here was a true doctor! What would he say and think of her when he found out that she was practicing without any real training?

Maha had heard of plague, a massive pandemic that had spread quickly through the northern half of Arabia when she was fairly young. By the grace of Allah, it had not reached Damask, much further to the south then Parsa. But it had devasted the areas it did reach. “Well, to be quite frank, we have never been the kindest to, ah, some peoples, whether their descendants deserve it or not. But you must understand why.” here Maha lowered her voice, “Either way, I would much rather be a dhimmi in Arabia then an Arab in Thiasa. At the very least, there are some legal provisions for the dhimmi.

“But enough of such talk! We have both had to endure our hardships, I am certain. If it’s a drink you desire, ustaz, then I have the perfect solution! I have discovered a special brew; the Thiasans hate it, but it is very much like the teas we enjoyed in Arabia. I rarely brew it for myself, as some of the herbs can only be found in certain seasons, but I find that this occasion is enough to warrant such a special drink, if it’d please you, ustaz.”

"It was a very long journey," Thomas admitted. "I traveled with a caravan after I sailed over the Straits of Camaria. I learned more about sea-sickness than I ever wanted to know, and about dehydration. One of the men in my traveling group died of it when we crossed the desert; he drank his water too quickly, all on the first day, and we didn't have enough..." He trailed off.

"Anyway--yes, I would love some tea. You are an herbalist, you say; do you just catalogue plants and makes teas, or do you also create remedies?" He watched her carefully. "It's only because I sorely miss the herbalists from the maristan. They were very skilled. I have poppy for infusions, and I make it in various preparations--powdered, with powdered worms, even though I'm skeptical of it, or several drams with ash, as Ibn Sina--I'm sorry, I'm boring you."

He shook his head, and tried to smile. "I'd be very pleased to try your tea indeed. I haven't had chai or sherbert in such a long time, and there are no real tea-houses here, of course. It's all ale and wine." And too much of it lately, for him, but that was another story. "Thank you. But tell me more about your studies, your travels. I'm curious to meet another scholarly mind."

“The desert is no place for fools.” Maha said, shaking her head. “I have heard of many young men dying in the desert because they would not listen to their companions.” Thankfully, none of the men in her family were so reckless. Her mother’s family was deeply involved in trade; there was no room for such fools in her line.

“I prefer to catalogue plants, honestly, and research. But if there is something you can do with a plant, name it and I can do it. Most of my time is dedicated to making remedies; it’s one of the few ways I can make money. They’re more influenced by Arab traditions, though. Less superstition, involved, but that seems less likely to work to Thiasans, somehow.” She snorted. “Like their traditions make sense. Whoever first thought of putting dung on injuries… Well, surely he has received his due. But yes, I do know a few remedies.

“My travels are not so intriguing, I must admit. When I first left Arabia, Mohammed and I traveled around Scalia, studying. I did not have much time to do much outside of studying; Mohammed was an intelligent man, but a hard taskmaster. Perhaps if I had visited Roma, I would have something to talk about. I hear that Roma is the grandest city in both Scalia and Thiasa; but I wouldn’t be allowed in, even if I had tried to enter. As for the rest of my journey, really, all of the villages tend to look all the same after a time.” Maha stood, smiling.

“Do not worry about your stories being a bore, ustaz. It is more then enough for me to hear from another who has seen the glories of Arabia. But you must excuse me for a time; the tea is something I must make myself.” Even if this man was not a messenger of Ali, he seemed to be a good man. It was refreshing to met someone of his quality in this land.

"Scalia was once a great country, but it's been crumbling, I hear, tearing itself apart. I have my quarrels with King Aedan, but Hadrian is worse." Thomas shook his head. "At least here in Thiasa, they focused on persecuting the heathen barbarians and not the--not honest physicians. Or Muslims." He nodded at her. "Though I'm not of the faith myself, obviously."

He nodded at her when she excused herself to make the tea, and sat down with a sigh, moving his case of supplies in close, under the table. They were very valuable, for the surgical tools and the expensive poppy, not to mention a few other medicinals he was only able to procure at ludicrously high prices on those few occasions when Arabian merchant vessels docked in Thiasa. More often than not, however, the answer to death's riddle was the same as ever: he waited. He comforted. And in the end, Death was the answer to it all.

He resisted the temptation to order his usual ale, which might offend Maha, and sat back with his hands laced together before him. The patrons of the inn seemed to be giving him funny looks, and Thomas chastised himself internally. What was he doing, speaking to an Arabian woman, in Arabic, no less? The last thing he needed was to call attention to himself. Well--what did it matter, he thought, taking a turn toward gloominess. They would find him a witch or nor depending on whim, not on evidence. That was how it always was.

When Maha returned, he stood up politely and held out a hand to help her with the tea she carried.

The teas in Arabia were dark and bitter. The tealeaf that gave tea its dark color and bitter flavor did not grow in Arabia; but there were other things to drink. Maha had developed a blend of chamomile, lavender, and rose hips that was light and sweet. It tasted nothing like home, but was very reminiscent of it. She rarely made it; her herbs tended to have other uses that were much more lucrative. But an occasional indulgence was perfectly acceptable. It was a simple thing to brew, and even though she did not have anything resembling a proper tea set, she was sure her visitor would understand. Tea sets didn’t, after all, quite exist in Thiasa.

When she returned, tray and two mugs in her hands, she noticed that Thomas’s posture had changed. He no longer looked so, well, inviting. Her spirits sunk, just slightly. It was dangerous to be speaking with her so openly. But he helped her with the tray, so he must not be too deterred. Hopefully. He wasn’t what she originally expected, but he was someone who she could identify with.

“This tea doesn’t have the bite of Arabian teas, but it has the same heart behind it. I hope you enjoy it; most people here just take their ale warm when they want something hot.” Maha sat down. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why would you go so far as Parsa for your education? I wasn’t aware that many people knew of our quality of education.”

Thomas smiled ruefully. And here was the heart of it. "My family were traveling merchants, and some still are," he explained carefully. And that worked, of course, because they were Jews. That was what Jews did. There was no way to stay in one place, in Thiasa, and survive. Instead they had traveled through Arabian land trading seed pearls. She might grow suspicious, because few Christian merchants could travel through Arabian land unmolested, or would want or need to do so. Still, they both had their secrets. It mattered a little less to him every day what people knew about him. "So I was always privy to tales of the famous academy founded by Ibn Sina. An ancestor of mine was a physician, I hear, and, well, I always felt medicine was a calling. The so-called Scalian 'academies' are little more than charnal houses tricked out with urine collectors. And apprenticeships are a joke, based on folkloric home remedies more than anything else. I could never in good conscience treat a patient without knowing the very best, and so--" He shrugged. "With my family's blessing, I went."

He sipped at his tea at last. "This is good. I taste rose hips... lavender?" He smiled gently. "My nose is getting worse as I get older, but that's the way it is. I like to think I'm increasing in wisdom, but perhaps only foolishness. So what are you doing here, while you wait? I mean, how is it you're able to wear the hijab? I must warn you, Thiasans are sometimes drawn to whimsical acts of violence against those who are different."

“A traveling family? It must have been very exciting to grow up in that way. My mother was brought up that kind of family, you know? But she never would tell us the exciting stories—said that they weren’t appropriate for young ladies.” Maha held a hand to her mouth, trying to smother a giggle. “She was always very concerned about my sister and I growing up to be proper ladies. She wasn’t from a titled family, and she was always aware of that. She had money though, and my father’s affections.” Her mother had been distraught when her father announced her departure to Scalia. ‘A proper lady does not tramp around in uncivilized wilderness!’ She screeched at her husband. Maha had to wonder what her mother would think of her now.

Thomas’s description of Scalian academies brought a smile to Maha’s face. She had met a proud Scalian doctor once, and had watched as he replaced her simple, but effective, treatment with his own bizarre brand of medicine. The patient died within the week, and Maha was blamed. It was the second time Maha had come within an inch of her life, and the most dangerous. In this village, she had had no friendly relations with any of the villagers. She only managed to escape by luck; she had left the village early in the morning to collect some herbs; she got close enough to the village to hear the riotous noises before running. She was even luckier to have had the foresight to bring her bag with her to help identify the herb she was looking for. If she hadn’t, she would have lost everything. “It has chamomile, as well.” She replied suddenly. She had been drifting again, almost lost in those memories. “Chamomile is particularly good for settling an upset stomach and it works just as well as a sleep aid.” It was a useful little flower.

“Ah… my decision to keep wearing the hijab.” She had stopped praying, she had not observed any holidays in not quite ten years. But the hijab was one of the few things she clung to. To remove it from her would be to demolish the last few bits of tradition she still kept with her here. But that was not the kind of thing to be shared with a man she barely knew. “I’m recognizable as a foreigner just by my face; wearing hijab doesn’t signal me out much more then that, really. And yes, I know the Thiasan proclivity to violence; they’ve had the noose strung for me in three separate villages. As you can guess, I don’t stay in one place for very long. But I may stay here for a bit longer then usual—“ Maha froze. She hadn’t meant to bring the boy up. If the good doctor knew what she had been doing, what would he think?

"Oh, my mother and father stayed in one place," Thomas said, shaking his head. "It was cousins and uncles who got to do the adventuring. And I myself, I suppose." He smiled, sipping at his tea, and leaned his forearms on the table. She seemed to grow more animated as she spoke, and he thought that probably some Thiasan customs had crept into her in any case; women were usually not so open with men who weren't their husbands--let alone dhimmis--in Arabia. Well, of course, he thought, amused. She's been here a very long time.

Her response, about her hijab, was interesting. He himself had chosen, like his father, to live as a Christian on the outside. He didn't wear the fringes or the sidelocks or the cap now. It was only safe. But then, Muslims were not well-known in Thiasa; people likely thought her simply eccentric. Still, it was a dangerous game she was playing, and a prideful one. Once, Thomas would have admired it, but he had lost all sense of pride a long time ago.

"As you can guess, I don’t stay in one place for very long. But I may stay here for a bit longer then usual—“

"Yes, I can understand--" Thomas cut himself off. "I'm sorry, is something wrong? You look troubled."

Maha laughed, nervously. “It’s nothing, really. Last night I was approached by a boy who was in need of extended care, so to say. It’s a bit of a challenging case, but I am certain that I am capable of taking care of him. It’s been a—how to say, ahh, an intriguing time?” Maha hated lying, she hated being lied to. Even the omission of truth was a terrible form of lying.

“Were you taught much in the way of herbal remedies, ustaz? I’m not familiar with everything they teach at the maristan. My honest specialty isn’t in medicine, though I’ve had to learn a lot since arriving here. Fortunately, I do have some resources to fall back on.” In her bag, she had a book, which hopefully no Thiasan had ever seen. It would get her it trouble, even if it was a harmless book on the uses of herbs. It had been a parting gift from her father, one of her most valued possessions.

"We learned mostly about methods of sedating patients," Thomas said. "We had resources, of course, herbalists who helped us, as well. I have a few books I brought back, though they were extremely costly and chiefly I spent my money on Ibn Sina's Quanun. But--tell me. This boy--is he badly hurt? Does he need a physician? Money is no object for me, you know. If someone is hurt, or in any danger of dying, I can help them. I mean no disrespect, but I simply have more resources at my disposal than you do."

He set down the rest of his tea untouched, his brow furrowed with concern. Thomas hated to hear about wounded people he could help. It was this physician's instinct that had prompted him--it was that that had prompted him to make most of the decisions he had made in his life. This was no exception. And particularly when a young person was involved, he couldn't help but feel concerned.

"Just tell me if you need my help, please. I can only imagine that a learned woman like you would understand that when you have greater knowledge, or someone with greater training, at your disposal--you use it. Or--him. Me."

Maha flushed. He was right; the good doctor should really look over the boy. Even if his opinion of her would turn, the boy’s health was more important. Besides, the doctor was likely much better equipped then she was. She took a deep breath in, than explained the events of the previous night. “A was approached by a young man who had some dismembered fingers; he came to me because the it was the steward who had cut them off. Steward is a title of office, correct? I suppose he could not approach any of the other physicians in the area because of that. What was left of his fingers had gangrened; I didn’t know what else to do but remove them.” Maha shook her head, looking down.

“I know it is unlawful for me to perform any such surgery in any country that I can think of, ustaz, but I did not know what else to do. If I had known you were to arrive in the morning, I would have told him to wait. Please forgive me, I know it is wrong of me to have done so, but I did not know of any other choice at the time.” She grasped the mug tightly; her fingers were trembling. At the very least, if she were to be run out tonight, the boy would have treatment.

Thomas saw her concern, but he was in fact relieved. That she cared more about the wellbeing of the boy than the laws of the land--that was something to be proud of.

"Don't worry," he said gently, reaching out to cover one of her shaking hands with his own. "You did the right thing. And a better job of it, I would warrant, than any barber-surgeon from Thiasa or its environs. I assume that you sterilized the blade and cleaned the wound properly? Did you leave a flap of skin so as to seal the stumps tightly? It prevents too much unsightly scarring; it's a technique I learned in Parsa."

Now he was getting didactic, but the rhythm of his words was meant both to sooth her, and to retrieve valuable information. "I do want to meet him. Maybe I'll come with you when you go to check on him, just to make sure some unknown complication or infection--serfs work so much on the land--hasn't set in."

Maha’s hands stopped trembling, but her grip remained tight. This doctor, he reminded her of her Uncle Abbas the time she broke his favorite vase. Frightened of her severe uncle, Maha had hidden and whimpered for days before Uncle Abbas finally took her aside, and spoke to her in the same voice, the same tone. This Thomas, he reminded her of Uncle Abbas.

She missed Uncle Abbas. He was one of her favorite relatives; after the vase incident, he always took the time to speak to Maha when they met. He had even given her a blank journal as a parting gift; whereas most of her extended family disapproved of her venture, he was one of her major supporters.

“I-I don’t remember if I did or not. Yes, it would be very good of you to come with me; if I have made a mistake, you will be there to catch it.”

Thomas nodded. "I'm grateful to you for the opportunity. It's fine, Maha, you don't have to worry. Your worry is commendable, but misplaced. I am an Arabian-educated doctor in Thiasa. I have had to be tolerant of differences my whole life." And she would likely never know how true that was. His Judaism was one secret he intended to keep; and particularly from her, particularly for her own safety, as well as his. The question of their faiths could not arise.

"Tell me when you're going. And tell me if you need any supplies. They can be costly, and this fiefdom doesn't appear to be doing as well as its brothers." Which was partly why he'd come. There were both more fresh graves--a sad number of them belonging to young serfs--and more people he could potentially help. It all came down to helping people, thought Thomas; and helping people always came down to helping oneself. That was the secret of human motivation.

"Do you need anything in the meantime? Perhaps a place to stay." The words came out before he even knew what he was saying. "I've the money to rent a place that's available on the outskirts of the fiefdom. I thought I might set up a practice here."

Why had he offered such a thing? She might suspect it was to seduce her, but Thomas's heart had only ever yearned for one woman, and yearned still. No, no. It was because he grasped at the faint reminders--of her, of his former, happy life--that this Arabian woman carried. And, besides, her herbal knowledge could come in handy, he told himself.

“I will be seeing him again this evening, to make sure the stitches I put in are still there and to change his bandages. If you have bandages, it would help greatly. He used the last of mine, and it’d be good to have a clean set. I don’t know if I trust him to have kept his hand clean.” Maha pulled back in her seat, resting her chin on her hand.

If the good doctor were to set up a practice, she could work as his assistant. If she did well enough, she could build here own little bungalow-shack-type house these people were so fond of. With the help of the doctor, she could establish a decent reputation for herself, and stay here for more then a few months. It would be easier for Ali to find her if she was in one place and not on the move.

But Lawley was rumbling with something; she had felt it when she first arrived, and the boy’s ramblings had confirmed it. “I am currently situated for now,” she began, “but if you were to start a practice, I would gladly assist you if you desired. However, can you not feel the tension here? It is dangerous here.” Maha lowered her voice, “I have seen the seeds of rebellion planted in the minds of these people. Are you still so certain you want to remain here?”

Thomas nodded. He'd been here only a short time, but he had picked up on the same currents. The currents of abuse and neglect turned to vinegar in people's hearts. The stench of untreated sickness seeped from the place, as though the entire fiefdom were a wound. But his job was to stay where he was most needed, and at the moment, this was the best place for him.

If nothing else, a revolution could generate plenty of healthy bodies. It was a cold calculus, but he served a higher purpose.

"I know," he said slowly, steepling his fingers. "And you don't have to stay, of course. That was--rash of me. But as a physician, I feel... Or, no. As who I am, I simply feel I have to stay here. These people have need of me now, and they will in the future." He shrugged, slowly, and his back twinged. If he hadn't been him, he would have prescribed more time spent walking outside and a hot poultice, but he was him, and he never followed his own advice. "Besides. In a certain sense it's safer here for--for people like us."

“People like us.” This doctor had his secrets; Maha could see that. An Arabian education set him apart from the other physicians here, but not nearly that much. To be able to place himself with her, he had to have some secret. She wondered what he must have done, but she quelled any questions she had. As someone with her own secrets and hidden memories, Maha understood the importance of not questioning. She assumed that if there were something she needed to know, he would tell her.

“How noble of you—I know even Arabian physicians who would flee at the sight of this trouble. I suppose that is for the best, if those not strong of heart leave. One must be able to care for himself in order to care for others. If one’s heart is clouded, then so will one’s actions.” Maha smiled, then stood. “I will help you for as long as I can, ustaz. Thank you for gracing me with your company, it has lightened my heart. But now I must prepare a painkiller for that boy. Will you meet me here a little before dusk? I should have everything prepared by then.”

"Well--yes. Like us. Those who practice medicine," Thomas said, though his eyes were troubled at the necessity of the lie, "will always be half-thought to practice witchcraft. If only I had such control over life and death as people see fit to grant me. Alas, all I can do with my humble art is to delay death for another few days or moments or years." He shrugged, and drank down the rest of his tea, realizing the flavor was indeed exceptionally balanced.

"Thank you again," he said, feeling a little awkward. "And--I'm not sure it's nobility so much as a compulsion. I care less for my life than some people." He shrugged, peering into the bottom of his mug.

"I won't put you in any danger, though. Working with me you would honestly be in little. Now that I've joined the Physician's Guild, I've come to be well-regarded enough, and no one will harm a physician in times of war." He stood up slowly, stretching his aching back, and moved to pull out her chair. "At sunset, then. I'll be in my rooms. I need to go over a few papers."