Upon reflection, I suppose “odyssey” just doesn’t have the right ring to it. Not to mention the whole Homerian thing.
I digress.
This journey would not have been possible without a slew of amazing people. I will try my very best to remember each and every one of them, but should I fail in that task, please know it is absolutely my fault, and I shall owe those offended something good in the near future. But not my firstborn child. Because that’s been done already.
First, this book would be nothing but a vague notion swimming about in my head were it not for the support and guidance of my agent, Barbara Poelle. B, you were there before I hit the first keystroke on this thing, and it was you who gave me the courage to write it. Mere gratitude seems hollow in face of all that. Nevertheless, thank you, a thousand, thousand times.
As I once said to her when we were under deadline and exchanging e-mails past midnight, there is exactly one other person in the world who has spent almost as much time with these words as I have. To my editor, Stacey Barney, you are my match in all things. Thank you for loving this book and believing in it so strongly from Day One. Then taking it from what it was into what it has become—something infinitely better. I appreciate and respect you more than I can express.
To the phenomenal team at Penguin—to Kate Meltzer, wordsmith and Francophile extraordinaire, to my wonderful publicist Marisa Russell, to Bri Lockhart for all your enthusiasm and support, to Venessa Carson, to Jen Besser, to Theresa Evangelista for the gorgeous cover design, to Marikka Tamura, Cara Petrus, Ana Deboo, Anne Heausler, and Cindy Howle for making sure the words within did proper service to their wonderful inspiration.
To my writing tribe—to Ricki Schultz, Sarah Henning, Joy Callaway, Sarah Lemon, Steph Funk, Alison Bliss, JJ, and Sarah Blair—thank you so much for being there for everything and through everything. I treasure each of you.
To all my fellow 2015 debut-ers—it has been such a privilege to share in this journey with you. A special note of thanks to my 2K15-ers . . . I am in awe of each of you. Also to Sabaa Tahir—thank you for being you.
To the astounding team of folks at We Need Diverse Books—every day I am blown away by our collective passion for this cause. Thank you for all that you do. This is only the beginning.
To Marie Lu for taking me under her wing and being one of the best people I have ever been privileged to know. Your blurb made me cry. And I will always give you the crust. Always.
To Carrie Ryan for being the most epic lunch buddy ever. I’m sure JP and Vic always wonder what it is we talk about for so long. I never know either. But I do know I leave thinking we should do this every week. Thank you, thank you, thank you. For everything and more.
To Heather Baror-Shapiro for taking Shazi out into the world with so much verve and style. I still to this day cannot grasp that my book will be in so many different languages. And it is all because of you.
To my sister, Erica, for being my first reader, for leaving the best notes in the history of ever, and for coming up with the idea for Khalid’s letters. Jane Austen has nothing on you (Knightley 4EVA). To Elaine for being my champion and my best friend and my biggest fan. I love you dearly, chica. To my brother Ian for telling me he would read my book when it was “finally” published. I expect a full report next week. To my brother Chris for the laughs and the hugs and the inappropriate GIFs. To my mother for never letting us watch TV during the week, thereby ensuring I would love books and the world of make-believe for all time. To my father for reading to us when we were little. And always doing the voices. To my in-laws for sharing their culture and their love and their food and their jokes with me. I love you both beyond words.
And, lastly, to Vic. You are my reason and my excuse, in all things.
One day, I will write it to the sky.
PROLOGUE
THE GIRL WAS ELEVEN AND THREE-QUARTERS.
Three very important quarters.
They’d been of consequence when her father had left her in charge this morning, with an important task to accomplish. So, with a world-weary sigh, she pushed up her tattered sleeves and heaved another shovelful of dusty rubble into the nearby wheelbarrow.
“It’s too heavy,” her eight-year-old brother complained as he struggled to move aside another piece of ash-laden debris from within the wreckage of their home. He coughed when a cloud of soot rose from amongst the charred remains.
“Let me help.” The girl dropped her shovel with a sharp clang.
“I don’t need any help!”
“We should work together, or we won’t finish cleaning everything before Baba returns home.” She braced her fists on her hips before glaring down at him.
“Look around you!” He threw his hands in the air. “We’ll never finish cleaning everything.”
Her eyes followed his hands.
The clay walls of their home were ripped apart. Broken. Blackened. Their roof opened up to the heavens. To a dull and forlorn sky.
To what once had been a glorious city.
The midday sun lay hidden behind the shattered rooftops of Rey. It cut shadows of light and dark across angry stone and scorched marble. Here and there, still-smoldering piles of rubble served as a harsh reminder of what had taken place only a few short days ago.
The young girl hardened her gaze and stepped closer to her brother.
“If you don’t want to help, then wait outside. But I’m going to keep working. Someone has to.” Again, she reached for her shovel.
The boy kicked at a nearby stone. It skittered across the packed earth before crashing to a halt at the foot of a hooded stranger standing by the remains of their door.
Tensing her grip on the shovel, the girl eased her brother behind her.
“May I help you . . . ?” She paused. The stranger’s black rida’ was embroidered in silver and gold thread. The scabbard of his sword was finely etched and delicately bejeweled, and his sandals were cut from the highest-quality calfskin.
He was no mere brigand.
The girl stood taller. “May I help you, sahib?”
When he did not answer right away, the girl raised her shovel higher, her brow taut and her heart hammering in her chest.
The stranger stepped from beneath the sagging doorjamb. He threw back his hood and raised both his palms in supplication. Each of his gestures was careful, and he moved with a liquid kind of grace.
As he strode into a weak slice of light, the girl saw his face for the first time.
He was younger than she expected. No more than twenty.
His face approached beautiful. But its angles were too harsh, his expression too severe. The sunlight on his hands revealed something rather at odds with the rest of his finery: the skin of his palms was red and cracked and peeling—evidence of hard labor.
His tired eyes were a tawny gold color. She’d seen eyes like that once. In a painting of a lion.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the stranger said softly. His eyes shifted around the ruin of their one-room abode. “May I speak to your father?”
The girl’s suspicion gripped her once more. “He’s—not here. He went to stand in line for building supplies.”
The stranger nodded. “And your mother?”
“She’s dead,” her brother said, stirring from behind her. “The roof fell on her during the storm. And she died.” There was a daring quality to his words that the girl did not feel. An unmet challenge that came with his youth.
The stranger’s severity deepened for an instant. He looked away. His hands fell to his sides.
After a beat, the stranger looked back at them, his eyes unwavering, despite his white-knuckled fists. “Do you have another shovel?”
“Why do you need a shovel, rich man?” Her little brother marched up to the stranger, accusation in each of his barefooted steps.
“Kamyar!” she gasped as she reached for the back of his ragged qamis.
The stranger blinked down at her brother before crouching on the packed-
earth floor.
“Kamyar, is it?” the stranger asked, a trace of a smile gracing his lips.
Her brother said nothing, though he was barely able to meet the tall stranger’s gaze, even from this adjusted vantage point.
“I—I apologize, sahib,” the girl stammered. “He’s a bit insolent.”
“Please don’t apologize. I rather appreciate insolence, when dispensed by the right person.” This time, the stranger did smile, and his features softened demonstrably.
“Yes,” her brother interrupted. “My name is Kamyar. What is yours?”
The stranger paused to study her brother for a moment.
“Khalid.”
“Why do you want a shovel, Khalid?” her brother demanded again.
“I’d like to help you repair your home.”
“Why?”
“Because when we help one another, we are able to accomplish things faster.”
Kamyar nodded slowly, then stopped to cant his head to one side. “But this isn’t your home. Why should you care?”
“Because Rey is my home. And Rey is your home. If you could help me when I needed help, would you not wish to do so?”
“Yes,” Kamyar said without hesitation. “I would.”
“Then it’s settled.” The stranger stood. “Will you share your shovel with me, Kamyar?”
• • •
For the rest of the afternoon, the trio worked to clear the floor of charred wood and waterlogged debris. The girl never gave the stranger her name and refused to call him anything but sahib, but Kamyar treated him like a long-lost friend with a common enemy. When the stranger gave them water and lavash bread to eat, the girl dipped her head and touched her fingertips to her brow in thanks.
A flush rose in her cheeks when the almost-beautiful stranger returned the gesture, without a word.
Soon, the day began bruising into night, and Kamyar wedged himself into a corner, his chin drooping to his chest and his eyes slowly falling shut.
The stranger finished arranging the last of the salvageable pieces of wood by the door and shook the dirt from his rida’ before pulling the hood of his cloak back over his head.
“Thank you,” the girl murmured, knowing that was the least she should do.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. Then the stranger reached into his cloak and removed a small pouch cinched shut by a leather cord.
“Please. Take it.”
“No, sahib.” She shook her head. “I cannot take your money. We’ve already taken enough of your generosity.”
“It isn’t much. I’d like for you to take it.” His eyes, which had appeared tired at the onset, now looked beyond exhausted. “Please.”
There was something about his face in that moment, hidden as it was in the play of shadows, in the lingering motes of ash and dust . . .
Something about it that signified a deeper suffering than the girl could ever hope to fathom.
She took the small pouch from his hand.
“Thank you,” he whispered. As though he were the one in need.
“Shiva,” she said. “My name is Shiva.”
Disbelief registered on his features for an instant. Then the sharp planes of his face smoothed.
Into an expression of peace.
“Of course it is.” He bowed low, with a hand to his brow.
Despite her confusion, she managed to respond in kind, her fingers brushing her forehead. When she looked up again, he had turned the corner.
And disappeared into the wending darkness of night
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