Baksheesh kept grumbling about getting his—or my— money back. Face shining, Salamon was still caught up in his vision of the sea. I would have started on our way to the khan; but Shira, saying nothing until now, held my arm and we lingered a little behind them.

“Kharr-loh,” she said, “you did not speak your dream.”

“Neither did you,” I said.

This did not seem a very good answer. She had her eyes on me, giving me an odd sort of look, waiting for me to go on. And so I had to—no, the truth is, I wanted to.

I intended to be frank and forthcoming, but that turned out more difficult than I thought. For parts of the dream, I found no words that made any kind of sense. Some of it—maybe the best moments—I meant to keep to myself. Though it came out in confused bits and pieces, I did tell her what I could.

When I got to the part about the verses, I had to pause. There were other lines; I couldn’t quite bring them to mind again.

Shira had been listening closely. “Yes, there’s more.”

With that, she repeated word for word exactly what I had dreamed, as if answering me:

I gave you blood oranges;
You gave me four seasons.
I gave you tamarinds;
You gave me sunrise.
I gave you a caged bird;
You set it free.

I stopped short in the middle of the street. It can be off-putting, even a little frightening, to have your own dream recited back to you. There was a reasonable explanation. It was no doubt an old, well-known poem. She must have read or heard it before.

I interrupted to suggest this. Shira shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I had the same dream.”

I stared like an idiot, trying to make heads or tails of it.

“Khabib!” I burst out. “What’s he done?”

He must have made a mistake. How else had he given the same dream to both of us? Or—and this puzzled me still more—had he done it on purpose? Why? Was he a swindler, after all? Had he meant to cheat us?

Baksheesh was motioning for us to hurry along. I had to find out. I turned and ran to the shop. Shira called something to me. I didn’t catch what it was.

Khabib’s door was locked. I tried to force the latch. It had been bolted from inside. I knocked hard. No answer. I pounded with all my might.

By then, I was in such a state that I considered kicking his door off the hinges. Meantime, a street urchin had sauntered up. He stood, hands on hips, observing my efforts. Even his rags looked impudent.

“They say all ferenghis are mad,” he remarked. “I think this must be true. Why, mirza, would you wish to break down a perfectly good door?”

I stopped for a moment. I had already skinned my knuckles, they had begun to smart. I told him, not too politely, it was none of his business, I wanted a few strong words with Khabib.

“Not home,” he said. “He is never home.”

Now I was out of patience. “I may be a ferenghi, but I’m not a fool. I was there a minute ago. He sold me a dream—”

“Did he, now?” The boy raised an eyebrow. “For a fact? Bought yourself a nice little dream? Where’d you put it? Safe and sound in your pocket? You’re a clever one, I see that. Shall you be interested in a sack of fresh air? I’ll sell it to you half price.”

I had swallowed enough of his sauce. I was tempted to thump him instead of the door.

He went on slowly and carefully, as if I weren’t the ripest grape in the bunch. “Mirza, you should stay out of the sun. It will jangle your brain. Let me tell you why Khabib is never home. Because there is no Khabib. There never was a Khabib. So how could he be at home? Also, there is no home. The house is empty, and empty longer than I can remember. But”—he shrugged—“if it amuses you, pound away and peace be with you.”

I would gladly have laid hold of him and shaken out a better explanation; but he dodged away and nipped around the corner. Before I could chase him down, Baksheesh hurried up to fetch me.

“O Unbesmirched Innocence!” He sighed and rolled his eyes when I babbled what the urchin had said. “Have you not learned? These Keshavaris will tell a ferenghi whatever pops into their heads.

“Pay it no mind,” he urged. “I know exactly what happened. That dream-hawker, that buttery rogue, must have smelt I wasn’t pleased with the goods he fobbed off on me. He was afraid I’d want the money back.

“So, nothing simpler. He’ll have ducked out a back door. He’s lying low, sure we’ll never find him.

“Who cares what some ragamuffin street urchin tells you? Remember, Noblest of Masters, I was there with you. So was old Sarabanda and your girl.

“Now,” said Baksheesh, “who are you going to believe? A young layabout having a bit of fun confusing the ferenghi? A natural-born liar who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the rear end? Or your devoted, honest, trustworthy servant?”

His explanation satisfied me. It had to. If I thought about it any other way, my wits would have slipped their mooring. What perplexed me: Khabib had addressed me by name. Or had he? I was, at the time, still halfway in my dream; I may have imagined it. Had I told him and forgotten?

I let it go, deciding to trust Baksheesh, always a slender reed to hang on to. But it made me feel better.

We caught up with Shira and Salamon. I said little about what happened, only that Khabib was unavailable, and made no more of it.

At the khan, Salamon and Baksheesh went to tend our animals. We had a lot to do before our provisions arrived the next morning. Especially, I wanted to talk with Shira about the new map.

We sat at a table in the khan. I unfolded the map that Cheshim had painted. Shira seemed distracted, barely studying what roads to follow. She only mentioned vaguely that we were fairly close to her caravanserai.

“Good,” I said. “You’ll soon be home.”

“And then? What am I to do about you?”

I didn’t answer. On that question, I assumed, she had already made up her mind: nothing.

She looked away. “Salamon was right, the first day we met him. Do you remember what he told me? There were things I didn’t want to know.”

She said no more for a while. I waited. She turned back to me, her eyes set on mine. “One thing I didn’t want to know, that I was afraid to know: I loved you from the start.”

Well. And well. That sent my heart into my throat. Between suddenly dumbstruck and deliriously happy, all I came out with was an eloquent mumble.

“Yes,” she said. “I fell in love with you many times. When I saw you on the quay at Sidya, when you were seasick and green as grass. And you still thought I was Khargush the Rabbit.

“And again at the inn, when you were jumping around like a madman in your underdrawers. And again when you thought you were defending me against that pig of a trader. And a dozen times after that. Except when you took my horse.

“I called to you when you ran to Khabib’s shop. I understood, then, I had to admit it straight out, not hide from it. Khabib made no mistake. He knew exactly what he was doing. He gave us what we wanted most.

“Kharr-loh,” she said, smiling, “who but lovers dream alike?”