“Terror made me cruel.”

  — Emily Bront?, "Wuthering Heights"

  The night in the desert was always like this: peaceful and frightening at the same time.

  The dark night, like a blanket with countless stars, covered the desert like a mother covers her child before going to sleep. The icy wind crept under clothes, just like a persistent stranger who did not understand the word ‘no’ and ignored all possible decency.

  But despite such drastic differences in sensation, every day the night bazaar held in the desert was crowded. And today was no exception.

  Customers crowded around the stalls and tents, trying to snatch the desired goods at a cheap price, while the merchants on the contrary tried to sell everything as expensive as possible. Among the offered goods there were many things: clothes from different types of fabrics; jewelry, some of which were cheap costume bijouterie, and others — precious items; and even animals — a large part of which were camels, cats and dogs, and a smaller part — monkeys and mongooses. And, of course, the food.

  No night bazaar in Apharia was without food.

  One of the counters was fully stocked with various sorts of meat, from the common duck and goose, to the rarer beef, which testified to the immense wealth of its owner. Another counter was lined with a variety of fruits, the first of which were candied, the second preserved in honey, and the third the most common, without any additives. There were also separate stalls with dairy products, herbs and spices, freshly caught fish, loaves of bread, and even drinks: such as beer and wine. But, of course, most of the merchants put out not just one type of product, but several at once, in order to hook as many customers as possible.

  At one of these counters, a young girl approached slowly, as if floating, and was followed by the glances of the people passing her by.

  She was dressed like a true beggar: her once long dress, which had been pure white, had been torn and stained so many times that it had become short and of a dirty yellow hue; as for shoes, there was nothing on her feet to protect her from the dust and sand that seeped through her toes. The only thing that stood out was the white veil she had recently bought—or rather stolen—that covered the lower part of her face with its translucent fabric like moonlight.

  However, the reason for so many interested looks was not her clothes at all, but she herself.

  Her tanned skin, unlike many others, was not yellow or red hue, no; it was bronze cast. While her hair, black as the night itself, was loose, and heavily, almost violently fluttered in the wind, her liquid gold-colored irises of eyes stood out vividly against the rippling, white veil.

  One glance at her confident gait and proud posture would have made one think she was from a noble family, but her unsightly attire contradicted that thought.

  But, as the saying goes, it's not the clothes that make the man, but the man the clothes.

  Or had it not been said that way back then?

  In any case, people were parting in front of her. Some looked at her with admiration, others with annoyance. But all of them—without exception—all of them, parted in front of her.

  Finally, having found the right counter, the girl approached it and with feigned interest began to look at the various kinds and varieties of sweets laid out on it.

  "What are you interested in, beautiful?" the merchant asked, a young man with an attractive appearance and a voice as sweet as honey, which she was allergic to.

  "I'm just looking," the girl replied sharply and immediately faltered — this was not the plan. "But maybe you can help me decide?" she continued, but in a softer tone.

  The merchant grinned.

  "In that case..." he leaned over her slightly, looking down at her, "...I need to know your preferences.”

  He reached forward and ran his fingertips lightly, almost weightlessly, over the veil, making the girl flinch slightly.

  "But for that I need to know your name," he said teasingly, as if not noticing the girl's reaction. "Because it can tell a lot about its owner's preferences."

  "My name is Avril," the girl replied on an exhale.

  Leaning her palms on the counter, she moved forward slightly, shortening the distance between her and the merchant. Playfully tilting her head to the side, Avril—as she called herself—asked:

  "Now that you know my name, what would you say about my preferences?”

  When he didn't respond, clearly confused by this abrupt change in mood, Avril pulled one of her hands away from the counter and pressed a finger to her lips thoughtfully.

  "Don't tell me it was a trick and you only wanted to get my name that way..."

  "What if it was?" regaining his composure he asked.

  "Then you'll have to take responsibility for your lie," she moved closer; now Avril stood almost right up to the merchant, and the only thing separating them was the counter. "Or else, I'll have to make you do it...''

  "And how?" the merchant narrowed his eyes predatorily.

  "Like this.”

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  Avril stood on her toes, and, covering her eyes, moved forward as if she were going to kiss him.

  However, it was nothing more than a deception, a plan that certainly didn't include a kiss.

  In the blink of an eye, the girl opened her eyelids, and, making sure the merchant's eyes were still closed, slid her hand to a small branch of white grapes and wrapped her palm around it, hiding it from the gazes of the people passing by. The branch dug into her skin and the grapes stuck to her palm, causing discomfort, but Avril was willing to endure it for the sake of her favorite fruit.

  Just as Avril was about to run away, the merchant's eyes suddenly opened and his fingers roughly grabbed her grape branch-holding hand.

  "I knew there was something wrong with you," he still had a smile on his face, but it no longer reached his eyes, which were now as cold as the desert night. "You wear silks like a lady, but you stink of hunger like a beggar.”

  Upon hearing his words, Avril was filled with wild rage; she tried to break free, but his grip was firm, almost steely, like a chain wrapped around her wrist.

  "Let me go!" she hissed quietly, clearly not wanting to attract the attention of passersby.

  "A brazen thief like you should be punished to the full extent of the law..." he continued, ignoring her completely. "And what is the law's punishment for thieves? Chopping off the hand — the one they used to steal," he spoke slowly, stretching his words as if he was enjoying himself.

  Contrary to his expectations, however, he did not see an ounce of fear on her face.

  "However," he interrupted the girl, "I may not tell anyone about the misunderstanding between us. But, of course, not for free..."

  ...And at that moment he finally saw it — the fear he had so longed for on her beautiful face.

  Continuing to hold Avril's wrist tightly, the merchant stepped out from behind the counter and, placing his hand on her waist, pressed her roughly against him — as if she wasn't a girl at all, but some kind of thing.

  "So?" he asked, licking his lips in anticipation. "Will you pay me back for the grapes you wanted so badly? Or shall I notify the whole bazaar that there's a sneaky rat hiding under the guise of a noble cat—"

  "Piss off!" this time, Avril didn't hold back and shouted, attracting the attention of the people passing by.

  She held the grapes up to his face and squeezed her palm, causing the fruit to burst and the juice to splash into the merchant's eyes.

  Contrary to Avril's expectations, however, he didn't even shriek, much less release her from his grip, only clench it tighter.

  He gritted his teeth, trying to contain the anger bubbling in his blood. He couldn't afford to hit a woman: not when they were in public; not when everyone around them thought of her as a noble aristocrat and him as a common merchant.

  “Follow me,” he hissed, pulling her forcibly behind him.

  "No!" being on the verge of hysterics shouted Avril. 'I—”

  "Oh, excuse me please!" said a young boy who appeared out of nowhere and literally squeezed in between them, forcing the merchant to let Avril go.

  "I'm sorry my sister distracted you from your work," his voice was carefree and his face flaunted a smile that only seemed genuine. "She didn't interrupt you much, did she?"

  "Sister?" the merchant asked, holding back a burst of anger.

  The boy raised his eyebrows innocently.

  "Something wrong?"

  The man looked him over with an appraising gaze, then said:

  "You don't look alike at all."

  And it was true.

  Unlike Avril, the boy had curly, dark brown hair; light blue eyes that resembled turquoise; the most ordinary brown skin color, without his—as he called she—sister's inherent bronze cast; and most importantly, a boyish, childlike face that looked simply out of place next to Avril's almost divine beauty.

  "Ah yes, I know, we are told so often," replied the boy still in the same carefree voice. "But what can I do if my sister was born so beautiful? And because of that I often have to protect her from all sorts of perverts..."

  The merchant coughed.

  "...but you obviously know better than I do about that."

  "What?" the man perked up.

  "Well you're a merchant, you work in the night bazaar — obviously this sort of thing happens a lot here in the heart of the city, and you probably even witness such situations on occasion... Don't you?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "And I hope," the boy interrupted him, "that when you see something like this, you're sure to help."

  "Yes, I—"

  "You must agree: it would be very sad if a man like you turned out to be nothing more than a pathetic pervert, wouldn't it?" asked Avril's brother, looking into the merchant's eyes; his voice was no longer carefree—it was sharp as a dagger's edge—but his face still wore a smile, now more like a grin.

  Of course, if he wanted to, he could easily handle both Avril and her so-called ‘brother,’ for they did have something in common: namely, a body that was painfully thin from months, perhaps even years, of malnutrition and starvation.

  And he wanted to.

  But the problem wasn't a lack of desire, it was the people who passed by and looked at anything that seemed interesting to them the way kites look at meat; and two men—one a common merchant and the other a beggar with a childlike face—almost fighting over the aristocratic girl with godlike beauty—at least that's how it looked from the outside—was causing them more than enough interest.

  So this time, the man didn't say anything — he just went back behind his counter and looked at the fruits laid out on it as if they were great works of art, impossible to look away from.

  "Then we should be going," Avril's brother said, as he was about to leave, when he suddenly turned back around and walked over to the vendor's counter, "But before we do..." he grabbed the largest branch of grapes, "...I will buy these grapes from you."

  "And what will you pay for it with?" the man asked mockingly, finally looking up. "You're obviously—"

  "And the payment will be my silence," replied the boy briefly. "You don't want the whole bazaar to know that there's a dirty pervert hiding under the guise of a common merchant, do you?" he quoted the man's earlier words with some distinction.

  And then, without waiting for the merchant's reaction to his words, the boy took his sister by the hand and left with her without looking back.

  ***

  "I don't know what I should call you now, Ife... Talented but inept thief?" joked the girl's brother when they had already moved a fair distance away from the stalls. "Even though you stole someone else's heart with beauty, we still planned for you to steal a branch of grapes with your hand..."

  Just as when the boy had appeared and saved his sister from the merchant, so now his voice sounded just as carefree and his smile seemed just as genuine.

  But just as then, so now, it was only the mask he so skillfully put on in emergencies.

  This time, however, the girl—who, as it turned out, wasn't named Avril, but Ife—simply couldn't notice the slight difference, because she was in a prehysterical state.

  "Irai, shut up," she stammered sharply. "Shut your mouth, Irai!" blurted out Ife, with only her brother noticing the tremor in her voice.

  In an instant, his mask fell away and the real Irai appeared before her: without the contrived nonchalance and forced smile.

  "I'm sorry, I just wanted to distract you," he admitted, stepping closer to her and gently placing his hands on her shoulder in a soothing gesture. "I know that's not a particularly—"

  "Don't touch me!" she recoiled sharply, pushing her brother away roughly.

  Memories of the calloused hands of the merchant slithering over her body like snakes and coiling around her waist and arms still haunted her.

  "Ife," Irai said with a pleading tone in his voice, "please don't..."

  Ife first began rubbing irritably and then already furiously brushing the places where the merchant had touched her with his dirty hands and calloused fingers trying to erase the marks that were not visible on her body but were felt in her soul.

  Irai was afraid; he was afraid to approach his sister, to say anything to her, to do anything — because he saw how bad she was; he understood that there was nothing he could do to help her; and he knew he could only make it worse.

  "I'm sorry," Irai muttered quietly. "I'm sorry I didn't make it in time."

  Ife squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see Irai's face contorted with pain and guilt, but as luck would have it, she had a vision even worse — the merchant, the tenacious grip of his hands, and the attempt to drag her away to a place she would surely never return from.

  That memory was followed by another, and then another and another, dozens of memories just like this one: memories in which she was nothing more than a homeless girl, with no family but a very pretty face, whose defenseless body could be used for personal pleasures and whose face could be used to sell and make money for herself.

  A girl with whom you could do anything you wanted and receive no punishment for it.

  That was what most of her memories were, of which there weren't many anyway.