Sweet Revenge

hidden the little glass ball between layers of clothing. It hadn’t been easy to smuggle it into the country, but she was learning to be inventive. The pills had been difficult as well, the small pink pills that made it possible for her to get through each day. They numbed the pain and eased the heart. Woman’s best friend. God knew, in this country a woman needed any friend she could make. If the pills were found, she could face public execution. If she didn’t have them, she wasn’t sure she could survive.
    A vicious cycle. The only thing pulling her around it was Adrianne.
    “Here you are.” Phoebe knelt by the chair. The child wore a chain of sapphires around her neck and glittering studs in her ears. Phoebe thought, hoped, the small gift she gave Adrianne now would mean more. “Open your eyes.”
    It was a simple thing, almost ridiculously simple. For a few dollars it could be bought in thousands of stores in the States during the holidays. Adrianne’s eyes widened as if she were holding magic in her hands.
    “It’s snow.” Phoebe turned the ball again, sending the white flakes dancing. “In America it snows in the winter. Well, in most places. At Christmastime, we decorate trees with pretty lights and colored balls. Pine trees, like the one you see in here. I rode with my grandfather on a sled like this one once.” Resting her head against Adrianne’s, she looked at the miniature horse and sleigh inside the glass ball. “One day, Addy, I’m going to take you there.”
    “Does it hurt?”
    “Snow?” Phoebe laughed again and shook the ball. The scene came to life once more with snow swirling around the decorated pine and the little man riding in the red sleigh behind a neat brown horse. It was an illusion. All she had left were her illusions and a small child to protect. “No. It’s cold and it’s wet. You can build things with it. Snowmen, snowballs, forts. It looks so pretty on the trees. See? Just like in here.”
    Adrianne tilted the ball herself. The little brown horse had one leg lifted as the tiny white flakes danced around his head. “It is pretty, more than my new dress. I want to show Duja.”
    “No.” Phoebe knew what would happen if Abdu learnedof it. The ball was a symbol of a Christian holiday. Since Adrianne’s birth, he had become a fanatic about religion and tradition. “It’s our secret, remember? When we’re alone, you can look at it, but never, ever when anyone is about.” She took the ball away and hid it in the drawer. “Now it’s time for the party.”
    It was hot in the harem though the fans were whirling and the lattices were closed against the power of the sun. The light coming from the shaded filigree lamps was soft and flattering. The women had dressed in their brightest and finest clothes. Leaving their black
abaayas
and veils at the door, they transformed themselves from crows to peacocks in the flash of an eye.
    With their veils the women also had shed their silence and begun to chatter about children, sex, fashion, and fertility. Within moments the harem with its shaded lamps and opulent cushions was filled with the heavy scent of women and incense.
    Because of her rank, Adrianne greeted the guests with a kiss on each cheek as green tea and spiced coffee were served in tiny, fragile cups without handles. There were aunts and cousins and a score of minor princesses, who, like the other women, Showed off with equal pride both their jewelry and their babies, the two major symbols of success in their world.
    Adrianne thought them beautiful in their long, whispery dresses, color competing with color. From behind her Phoebe saw a costume parade that would have suited the eighteenth century. She accepted the pitying glances cast her way with the same stoic expression that she accepted smug ones. She recognized full well that she was the intruder here, the woman from the West who had failed to give the king an heir. It didn’t matter, she told herself, whether or not they accepted her. As long as they were kind to Adrianne.
    She could find no fault there. Adrianne was one of them in a way she could never be.
    They fell hungrily on the buffet, sampling everything, using their fingers as often as she used the little silver spoons. If they grew too plump for their dresses, they would buy new ones. It was shopping, Phoebe thought, that got the Arab woman through the day, just as it was the pink pill that got her through. No man except husband, father, or