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“It was the Deadmen who blew up the hospital. That was all I could get, though. Once their guy realized I wasn’t a dumb blond with stars in my eyes, he was willing to die rather than give up any more intel.” - Decoded message from ILF undercover operative Nightingale to ILF handler Hiro Tanaka

Amira

Twelve Years Ago

The scent of garlic frying in butter makes my gaze drift over to the clock on the wall. Sayed is making molokhia for dinner. Scooping the savory stew up with baladi is the only time my mother lets me eat with my hands.

“Amira.” My tutor Eleanor’s voice has a slight edge. “Focus. The Treaty of Versailles?”

I sigh softly. There’s still more than an hour left in my school day, which has already felt like an eternity. My father will be home tonight. He may already be here, but I’m not allowed to leave the study where Eleanor and I spend eight hours a day until five p.m.

“It formally ended World War I,” I say. “Though many believe it didn’t really end the war so much as it created the conditions for the war to resume twenty years later.”

“And what were those conditions?”

I think back to the reading I did last night, which quite literally put me to sleep. Yesterday was a rigorous training day, my coach making me work endlessly on my core strength. Not only was I exhausted by bedtime, but today it hurts to laugh, cough, or even breathe deeply.

“Redrawn borders and territorial losses for Germany,” I begin, the answer flowing out of me without much thought.

I actually like history, and I love reading. It’s math that’s painful, and I swear Eleanor doubles down if I show any resistance to learning it.

By the end of my lengthy response to Eleanor’s question, I’m looking at the clock again.

“Mira.” There’s no edge in my tutor’s tone this time. She’s over it, same as me.

“I covered everything,” I say. “Just not enthusiastically.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “Right—same question. Treaty of Versailles, but this time in French.”

I repeat my answer in French, and then, without missing a beat, in Arabic, which Eleanor doesn’t know. I have a different tutor for that.

“Cheeky,” she says. “Now Italian.”

I cringe, because that’s the language I’m weakest in. The verb conjugation is hard for me to remember, especially when I'm not speaking it regularly.

Eleanor only has to correct me a few times as I respond to her question in Italian.

“I’ll get lots of practice next month,” I remind her.

She’s taking me on a weeklong trip to Italy so I can practice speaking with natives and we can tour landmarks. We’ve been there before, but this time she’s focusing on the country’s art. When we travel, Eleanor always makes sure it’s fun. She’s been my full-time tutor for six years now, and I spend more time with her than anyone, even my parents.

I have a few friends my age, like Hana and Karim from my orchestra ensemble, but I don’t get to spend time with them outside of practices. My mother thinks unproductive time rots the brain. Eleanor is as close as I have to a best friend.

If only she knew how to play the violin. My violin instructor, Henry, will be here at five for my weekly lesson, and he’s an old bore. He never cracks a smile and he accuses me of not practicing, which is an impossibility in this home.

But today, I’m too happy to let Henry affect my mood. When it’s time for my lesson, I ignore his sneers and complaints over my playing not being expressive enough. Even playing a piece precisely like Henry does isn’t good enough.

That’s the way to hold on to this gig, though—if private tutors talk, he probably knows anyone who tells Nadia Khalil Martin’s daughter she’s doing well will be fired soon.

After my violin lesson, I rush through the formal kitchen, with its gleaming marble floors, warm wood Italian cabinets, and sparkling, unused marble counters. I open a set of wood-paneled double doors and walk into the prep kitchen, the scent of molokhia leading me there like a cartoon character in a trance. Sayed looks up from the vegetables he’s chopping and grins at me.

“Hungry?”

“Yes.” I give him a pleading look, and he gestures at a small bundle on his stainless prep island, the wrapping a white cloth napkin.

“Thank you, Sayed,” I say as I unwrap it.