Iris and Ruby: A gripping, exotic historical novel. Rosie Thomas

endlessly did.

      They all sat down together. Ruby reached for the bread at once, then realised that the two old people were watching her, waiting for something. She wondered blankly what it could be, and then it struck her. She cast about in her mind. Her first school, the first of many, had been a Church primary. ‘Forwhatweareabouttoreceive,’ she mumbled, ‘maytheLordmakeustrulythankful.’

      This seemed to fit the bill. They were being respectful of her religion. Mamdooh nodded gravely, then lifted the lid off the pot.

      It had been quite a day, one way and another, Ruby thought. She had been kissed as if she had been playing Spin the Bottle at a kids’ party, and she had said grace.

      Mamdooh noticed the smile that transformed her. ‘That is better. Now please eat some of this very good food.’

      It was good. Chick peas and tomatoes, and some thick but tender meat. In reply to Mamdooh’s questions she told them a little about Ash and where they had spent the day.

      Afterwards, Ruby carried the plates to the big old sink and Auntie showed her how they were to be washed and dried, and where to put them away.

      Mamdooh prepared a tray. There was the little silver teapot and a bunch of fresh mint leaves, sugar and a glass cup in a worn silver holder. There was also a medicine bottle, a glass and some pills.

      ‘You like to come up now, Miss, to Mum-reese?’

      ‘Please call me Ruby, you know? Shall I carry that?’

      ‘It is for me to do, thank you.’

      Ruby said goodnight to Auntie, who wrapped her arms round her again and showed her few remaining teeth in a wide smile. Ruby guessed that they had both forgiven her.

      The lamp was on beside Iris’s bed, but the rest of the room was dim. Her eyes had been closed, but as soon as Mamdooh came in with Ruby behind him she opened them. At first, the expression was blank. If there was anything in the depths, it was bewilderment. But then Iris saw Ruby. Her lips moved and she tried to sit up against the pillows.

      ‘There you are,’ she said.

      How long have I been ill this time?

      I have had the lurid, monstrous dreams of a high fever, but not so many of them. I am sure it was only this morning that the doctor came, the young Frenchman called Nicolas Grosseteste. His senior partner was my doctor for many years, although I rarely needed his opinion. But poor Alphonse is dead now and Doctor Nicolas is capable enough, in his superior way. He thinks I am old and frail, but I am not quite as frail as he believes. I have had malaria and another bout would probably finish me off, but it is not malaria this time. My immune system is weakened from many years of living in equatorial climates and I am susceptible to fevers. But I feel better tonight. Seeing the child makes me feel better.