Written in the Ashes by K. Hollan Van Zandt

it—that they would not die in the catacombs.
    So.
    It was hours before they saw the torches of Alizar’s landing and the familiar footbridge. Tarek pushed Hannah out of the water and she collapsed on the stones in exhaustion, her hair strewn around her body like kelp on the beach. Tarek pulled himself onto the stones and struggled up the stairs, his knee trailing blood on each step.
    Jemir came at once when he heard Tarek’s call. Hannah was barely conscious when they tried to rouse her.
    “Hermes, Zeus and Apollo, what have you done to her?” asked Jemir.
    Tarek shot Jemir a nasty look and spit water on the ground. “What have I done? This little cunny challenged the Parabolani in the market. She nearly got us killed.”
    Jemir’s eyes went wide as a lemur’s. “If they saw you, they will come here next,” he whispered as his hands trembled. “We will all be questioned.” But it was not the being questioned he feared; it was the ruthless methods of questioning.
    Jemir lifted Hannah up in his arms and she coughed, and then her head fell back. Leitah appeared on the stairs. “Call Philemon,” Jemir said to her. “Go at once.”

    For days following the incident in the marketplace Hannah did not leave Alizar’s house and slept most of the day and night. Her ankle was black with bruises and throbbed in pain, her spirit even more so. Leitah rubbed a cool mint salve into the joint and bound it with a splint and a strong length of thick linen. The doctor had said the healing would be slow. He was a wise man, though Jemir noticed he counted his coins with a certain glee that seemed inappropriate to his profession. This was one doctor who would undoubtedly be immune to the inflation in the market due to the drought.
    Hannah could not push the death of the young Jewish girl from her mind. She was full of sickening regret. When the tears stopped, she simply stared at the wall, absently watching the light change as the sun drew down the sky.
    For a week, no one in Alizar’s house slept as they waited in terror for the Parabolani to appear. But they did not come. Hannah lay in bed sipping Jemir’s willow tea, her leg throbbing with pain. She occasionally limped over to the balcony to look out on the street below. A cot had been placed in Naomi’s room for Hannah to rest while she recovered. Sometimes she sat beside Naomi and stroked the tiny hairs on her forearms and lifted a flagon of water to her lips. To be near Naomi was the closest thing she had ever known to having a mother. Hannah found comfort in those hours. Beloved Naomi.
    And so Hannah rested and played merles and talked to Naomi. More weeks passed that way until one morning, something unusual occurred. A golden butterfly with dramatic black edging around its wings floated across the balcony and through the doors. It lilted around the room aimlessly for several minutes then settled on Naomi’s throat, opening and closing its delicate wings.
    And Naomi sighed.
    Hannah sat up. Then Naomi sighed again, and her breath wavered on the exhalation, almost as though she were attempting to form words.
    “You know it is there,” Hannah whispered.
    Naomi’s lips quivered.
    Hannah crept to the bed. “Please wake,” she said. “Please, for me.” As she watched the butterfly pumping its wings, she slipped her fingers into Naomi’s hand and squeezed.
    A little breeze crossed the room and Naomi’s eyelids fluttered and opened. The butterfly did not stir. Hannah found herself looking at eyes as green as summer grass. Naomi’s lips tipped slightly upward and she squeezed Hannah’s hand ever so gently in return. So gently. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then her eyes closed as the resting butterfly lifted from her chest and vanished through the open window.
    Hannah threw open the door and called to everyone to come quickly. Tarek was out, but Jemir and Leitah came at once. As Hannah told them what had happened, Jemir brought his hands to his heart. “It must