Rosewater and Soda Bread by Marsha Mehran

shook her head. “Just for Christmas holidays. Father Mahoney's already got her thinking up set designs for the nativity show. He stopped by school today. Auditions are next month,” Layla said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I'mthinking of trying out for Mary. What do you think Bahar would say to that?”
    “Say to what?” Their middle sister pushed her way into the kitchen, using her behind to swing open the double doors.
    She needed little help with the brass tray of empty dishes she carried in her strong arms. She slid them effortlessly onto the counter and whipped off her yellow checked apron. Underneath she was wearing a shin-length gray skirt with double pleats and pockets.
    “Mary, Mother of Jesus. You know, the Virgin.” Layla flicked her eyebrows up and down in a teasing manner.
    Bahar stared at her younger sister for a moment. “What about her?” Her voice was laced with tension.
    “Well, Father Mahoney's writing his own version of the nativity—”
    “Oh”—Bahar waved her hand dismissively—“the Christmas show he's auditioning.” She stopped short, her face reddening.
    Layla squinted her eyes. “How did you know? He only announced it at school today.”
    Bahar shrugged quickly and turned her back to Layla. “Mrs. Boylan. She told me about it at the Mart.” She stretched to reach her coat from the stand near the pantry. “What about it?”
    Layla smiled, reaching over to a bowl of plums. “I'm thinking of auditioning.” She kept her eyes on Bahar, waiting for her inevitable reaction.
    “For Mary.”
    Layla nodded. She popped one in her mouth, chewing it with irreverent gusto.
    Bahar sighed, her lips pursed tight. Then she nodded, moving her head up and down slowly. “Good. I think that's a very good idea. I'm proud of you, Layla. Good for you.”
    Layla nearly swallowed the plum whole from shock.
    Both she and Marjan watched in silence as Bahar slipped into her coat and opened the outside door.
    “I'll be back in an hour.” She paused and turned around. “There's three construction workers at table one who want to know about the hookah. I told them it's only for show, but they want to smoke it anyway. You deal with them, Marjan.”
    She nodded at Layla once more. “Good for you,” she said before trotting down the garden path to the wooden gate. She disappeared down the cobblestone alleyway beyond.
    Layla turned to Marjan, her eyes wide. “What just happened?”
    Marjan looked out the window and shook her head. “I have no idea,” she said, feeling her worry creep up.

    THE LATCHES ON THE SHUTTERS slid into place as dusk surrendered to night. The smell of turf laced the cool twilight, filling Marjan's lungs with its smoky sweetness. All across Ballina-croagh, fireplaces roared with blocks of dried bogland, the bricks of turf that were preferred over logs of any kind.
    It was a pity the flat upstairs did not have a fireplace. It would have been a delicious treat to sit near a crackling fire after a long, hard day. Put her feet up with a cup of tea, tuck into a great gothic novel, something by those gorgeous Brontë sisters maybe.
    Or perhaps continue on with
Dominions of Clay
. She hadn't had time to read much of Julian Winthrop Muir's novel, though she had cracked it open to read the first paragraph the day he'd given her a copy. The language was as rich and beautiful as she imagined it would be, though she had not yet grasped the story's intentions. According to the jacket flap, it told the story of one day in the life of an architect, a man who had built his entire lifeon shoddy foundations. It sounded intriguing, thought Marjan. Very intellectual.
    Yes, a fireplace and a great fat paperback would indeed be lovely. She stooped to remove the iron doorstop. The footsteps behind had her rising almost immediately.
    “This is beautiful country, isn't it? You forget, being away as long as I have.”
    Julian stood next to her, observing the view down Main Mall.
    “Oh. Yes, it is