married off his daughter

He never used her name. To name a thing was to acknowledge its soul.

Zainab rose, her fingers trailing the velvet piping of the armchair. She felt a presence in the room—a smell of woodsmoke, cheap tobacco, and the ozone of a coming storm.

“The mosque has many mouths to feed,” Malik said, his voice dripping with a cruel sort of relief. “One of them continue reading …