I heard something in the distance again, and my heart began to race. I could feel the familiarity of it, beginning in my fingertips. A nervous condition, the doctors had said, most likely brought on by the stress of my parents’ death. It was a pressure, a grip, one that felt as though it would strangle me, for surely it possessed enough strength, enough power. Part of me had imagined, naively, I realized, that leaving England behind might mean leaving that all behind as well, that distance was all that was needed to dispel the ghosts of my past. I had been a fool, I thought, angry at myself, at my ignorance. It would follow me, always, no matter where or how far I went.

But then, standing just a few paces away on the staircase, so that I towered over her, and not the other way around, stood Lucy. She watched me, with those strange, inquisitive eyes, and then she smiled and said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Alice.”

Her voice was so certain, so sure.

Lucy extended her hand toward me. “Come on, let’s go get supper.”

All at once I felt the darkness that had threatened me only a second before begin to lift until it no longer felt like I was some Gothic heroine trapped in a haunted castle, a patriarchal labyrinth that was impossible to ever escape. Instead I was simply Alice and she was Lucy, and there was nothing to be afraid of any longer. I felt her hand searching for mine, her fingers interlacing with my own. I grasped it and together we fled the darkened mansion, leaving behind all the ghosts it held within, both real and imagined.

THERE WAS A COMMOTION OUTSIDE THE BAR, and then something louder: an explosion of sorts, which brought me hurtling back to the present. I thought at first it was gunfire, thought I could feel the hot bite of it against my skin. I thought of the riots, of the violence that had been erupting throughout Morocco, that had touched Tangier only recently, proving that even she was not immune. John had spoken of it only briefly, making it sound as though it had been amusing that day when the locals had decided to take to the streets, hurtling bottles at the foreign-owned stores and later, when the police responded with gunfire, anything they could use to defend themselves. And when news came out that several lives had been claimed in the skirmish, and almost all of them locals, John had only shrugged, had told me it was nothing to worry about, that these minor rebellions would be squashed eventually. His faith had been absolute. It seemed that not even he, with his professed love for Tangier, had been able to foresee the determination of its people to reclaim their independence, to reclaim their Tangier, had refused to acknowledge, to recognize just how important, how absolutely necessary it was to their life, to their survival.

I turned to look over my shoulder and saw a flash of lights, just beyond the din of the bar. No one was shouting or running away. There was only laughter, and the sounds of celebration. Fireworks, then, I noted. Locals celebrating their approaching independence. The idea caused something to prickle, just there, at the back of my mind. I moved and knocked over the glass in front of me, sending it onto the floor, splintering into sharp, nearly invisible pieces, the gin and tonic soaking my dress.

Letting out a sharp exclamation, I stood quickly, the suddenness of my movement causing the dog beneath the table to let out a yelp of dismay, scrambling from his safe hold—though not before his teeth found purchase, my unexpected movement causing him to sink his teeth into my leg. I looked down to see a trail of blood slipping down my now-tattered stocking. The sight made me strangely dizzy. “He didn’t mean it,” I whispered to no one, watching as the dog disappeared from the bar. My head still felt light as I moved to help pick up the broken glass—the bartender now heading toward the mess that I had made—and I felt myself blush with embarrassment. I thought, then, of John and his angry scowl that evening. Of Lucy, and her penetrating gaze, always looking, always searching, I worried, for something that was not there. And then I thought I saw him—John—at the bar, though he wasn’t alone, wasn’t with Charlie, as he’d promised. And there was Lucy, just behind him, watching, watching, watching.

And then I felt the hard sticky floor of the bar beneath me as I fainted, falling slowly at first, and then faster, without anyone at all to catch me.

Four

Lucy

I FOUND THE SOUKS ELECTRIFYING. THE LABYRINTHINE CURVE of them: dark and packed, with vendors that stood behind stalls or sat on the floor, their bags and buckets of wares splayed out before them. At first, I had been nearly swept up in its fast-moving current, but then I had slowed my gait—walking steadily, with purpose. I stopped at one stall, and then another, purchasing a few grams of bright green olives at one, a stack of hot, sweating msemmen at another. I inspected the hanging carcasses of chickens, not recoiling at the smell the way most tourists I observed did, but considering and haggling, as if I intended to purchase one. I paused in front of the brightly dressed Rif women, opting for a handful of broad beans instead, and then a wheel of white cheese, the kind I had seen locals eat, the sides covered with intricately braided green leaves.

I had given up on my day dresses. Although it appeared that there were a number of expat women who still favored them, I found the fitted bodice too restrictive in the heat, and the skirt prone to catching against the jagged edges of the city. Instead I had liberated several pairs of capris from my suitcase, ones that I had not yet mustered the courage to wear back home, and a couple of monochrome blouses that seemed more prepared to handle the climate.

I had tried to convince Alice to come, but she had refused, shaking her head, waving her hands around the cluttered apartment to indicate all the work she should do before John arrived home—work that never seemed to be completed but that went on and on. Go, she had said, enjoy your holiday. I had frowned and pleaded, but it soon became apparent that she did not intend to give in. The vehemence with which she shook her head when I had pressed the issue, the thin white of her lips as she moved them together, gave the impression that her reluctance to show a friend around the city was something much more serious than just her need to attend to the laundry.

I thought of her as I walked—Alice, her lovely lily-white skin that had obviously not seen sun for quite some time, locked up within the walls of their flat. I remembered the paleness of her face from the night before, after that wretched beast had bitten her, after she had fainted and fallen onto the ground. She had grown quiet—quieter still—as we had been forced to find a doctor in the hours afterward, a frantic search for a vaccination and a check for any possible concussion. And in the ensuing chaos, I had been forced to push aside what I had seen, what I had witnessed, in the moments before Alice had been bitten.

It had happened shortly after John disappeared from the table.

I had looked up, away from Alice, away from my drink, and into the mirror fastened on the wall before me. I had seen him, his image distorted by the divots in the glass, standing at the bar. Only, he had not been alone, had not been with anyone named Charlie. Instead a woman stood beside him, her face half obscured by a mane of long dark hair. A local, I thought, watching as his fingers trailed the upper part of her thigh, pushing at the material of her dress.

I had glanced at Alice, but it didn’t seem like she had noticed, and I cast a hurried glance back to the mirror, appraising the angle at which it hung, uncertain whether she would be able to see them at all, even if she did look up. Part of me wanted to show her, to point out the reflection, the truth displayed brazenly before us. But something stayed me. Something whispered that it was not the time, that I should wait before revealing this bit of information to her, this girl I had once known as well as myself and who looked at me now with an expression I couldn’t quite understand, couldn’t quite manage to breach.

I wound my way through the medina and over to the Grand Socco, where a pleasant sort of plaza greeted me. Green spaces filled with flowers, couples, groups of men, and expat pensioners enjoying a leisurely stroll in the afternoon heat, and several feet away a large, imposing building that towered over the rest. CINEMA RIF, the sign read, its facade dim and grimy. What had once no doubt consisted of brilliant reds, blues, and yellows had faded under the thick application of dust that had since settled. Housed within the cinema was a small café, a scattering of chairs arranged just inside the building, the doors thrown open to the sun, with a few leftover tables and chairs scattered on the sidewalk outside.

I moved quickly to take a seat: a small round table intended for two, pushed up against the building’s rough wall, underneath a poster advertisement for a French film I had never heard of before that pictured a young boy standing beneath a red balloon. Several moments passed before the waitress appeared: a short, squat woman whose face was lined with wrinkles. I was relieved to find she spoke French, and although I knew only a scattering of words, it was enough to successfully place an order, as within minutes she returned, a tall glass filled with hot Moroccan mint tea clutched between her fingers. Her severe face broke into a grin as she placed it in front of me.