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The quietness in Sa’adat was something he had come to expect. She reminded him of the women from the far parts of the land, who followed practices his own mother had never taught. Of course, she was mad. Why else would she bed a demon? Samael, whatever else he was, was no god. It had been his blood that allowed the true gods to come through, though, and this was perhaps the only thing that he had done right by his children. Coming here had initially been to find him—in his absence, Enkiel had found his own purpose.
So used to her was he now, having spent days upon days healing her from the malaria, that her closeness no longer bothered him. As a medic, he had learned to get over that idea quickly. As he walked, she met his pace and managed to secure a flower in his thick hair. Enkiel did not brush it away, allowing her the childish display. Alone as they were, he felt no qualms about her behaving in such a manner. It was a nice change from her behavior when feverish. “حتى مع الشاي بلدي المرعب,” he replied, slowing only as he spotted the pale flowers he was after. “أنا بحاجة إلى المزيد من الزهور. هل يمكن أن تساعدني تجمعهم؟”
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