All of these factors—these changes—combined will throw those who wait for the old lady traveling under the veil of night off course. I believe you won’t even draw their notice because they won’t be looking for what you are. A young woman, in a more vibrant, younger woman’s manner of dress, traveling with a group of people—family—in the daylight hours.”
“I believe it is your only chance,” the husband said in a resolute voice.
The absolute certainty in the husband’s tone overrode any fear Honor had of venturing into the daylight. She pondered the woman’s wisdom, and her idea had merit. She would, in fact, be the reverse of all intel A New Era had on her. They might not fall for it ever again, but if she didn’t get past them this time, there wouldn’t be a next time to worry over anyway. She had to take it one step at a time. Avoid one trap at a time. And as the husband had said, it was her only chance. Her only choice. She had to do this, because if she was discovered leaving under the shield of dark, the militants would know that someone in the village had given her sanctuary, and they would retaliate by murdering every single man, woman and child. The thought sickened her. These people had been kind to her, risking their lives to help her, and she’d be damned if they were repaid with violence.
She simply nodded her agreement as the woman firstthoroughly cleaned Honor’s face, removing the embedded dirt and debris disguised by the dye to make her look older, with age-weathered skin. Then, with great care, she rubbed the dye into Honor’s skin and then began reapplying it to her hair so that the natural blond was nearly black. She redarkened Honor’s eyebrows, which were already brown, but a light brown color, in contrast to the honey blond of her hair. Honor, not wanting to take any chances, had dyed them the first time she’d used henna to cement her disguise.
Next she gently applied a thick layer of the odorless paste to Honor’s swollen knee, whispering a prayer as she worked. Tears burned the edges of Honor’s eyes because the woman prayed in the language of religion. Arabic. And she was asking for Allah’s blessing and for his hand to guide her path to freedom.
When she’d meticulously applied the medicinal concoction to the many other scrapes and bruises, she instructed Honor to hold out her hands and then carefully went over each finger and rubbed the dye into the lines and cracks in her skin. Then she did the same to Honor’s feet, but then she produced a pair of shoes, the kind the natives wore, soft and comfortable, but the woman assured her they were sturdy and would withstand the amount of walking Honor had to do.
“The shoes you wore are a giveaway,” the woman patiently explained. “Not shoes a woman here would wear. Fortunately no one has seen them or they would have been noticed. But with you now wearing a different garment and shoes of a native, and the fact that you’re departing well before the sun sets, you should have no difficulty in getting way beyond the village. There are no reports of anyone departing the market in any direction being stopped and searched or questioned. By all accounts, the snakes are just lying in the grass and waiting for you to magically appear in front of them. One would think they would have learned by now not to underestimate you, but their arrogance is too much for that. They think they have the advantage now because they know your habits and your patterns, and so they’ve set a trap and are waiting for you to fall neatly into it.”
“I have you—both of you,” she added to include the husband, “to thank for my not falling into their trap because that is precisely what I would have done had you not warned—and aided—me.”
“Come, come now,” the woman said, producing the garments for Honor to wear out of the village. “They wait at one of the booths, pretending interest until you arrive. You must hurry, though. We
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