The Bride Price by Karen Jones Delk

bowed to his master and presented him with a cup of water.
    Between greedy swallows, Suleiman said, “This is Jamil, head of my household in Tangier. He will see to your needs. All you must do is ask. Listen to him well, for he has much to teach you.
    “Jamil, take them to the baths right away.”
    “Yes, sidi. Follow me,” Jamil instructed the women in French. He led his charges past a luxurious majlis, through an exquisitely crafted iron gate to a breezeway leading to the building that served as harem. They did not stop at any of the closed doors lining the corridor. Instead the eunuch led them straight through the building into the baths.
    Several female Arab bath attendants met them at the door. They laughed and chattered as they helped the newcomers remove their clothing, their voices dying to awed whispers when Pamela’s fair hair and skin were revealed.
    “My master has done well today.” Jamil’s forbidding face softened approvingly. “Skin so fair I have never seen.”
    At a nod from him, three servants came forward and took charge of the new women. The girl assigned to Bryna was a striking Berber with a warm smile and intricate tattoos along her dusky arms.
    When she learned her caretaker spoke neither French nor English, Bryna said little. She suffered herself to be stripped and led to the baths. She did not fuss and try to hide her body as the European women did, but she refused to surrender her locket. Using sign language, the Berber girl made it clear the necklace would be returned after the bath. Too weary to argue, Bryna gave it to her, oddly pleased when the other girl admired it. The only possession left to her, it kept the Creole girl from feeling as if she had slipped into a nightmare where she would be forever lost.
    The bath was over none too soon for Bryna. Wrapped in a towel, she was laid on a bench and her thick hair spread out to dry. Skillfully the Berber girl massaged Bryna’s back and neck, relieving knots of tension and strain, then left her to nap. After nearly an hour Bryna was awakened and given a cup of cool water to drink and some clothes.
    The gauzy caftan Jamil had selected for her was the same blue as her eyes and richly embroidered with golden threads. With the Berber girl’s assistance, Bryna slipped it over her head. It slid into place, skimming her hips with a sensuous hiss of silk on skin.
    Her dresser smiled approvingly and gestured for her to sit on the bench. Shyly she fastened the golden locket around her neck. Then she brushed the American girl’s hair to a glossy sheen and braided it with a golden ribbon in one simple plait down her back. Skillfully she shaded Bryna’s eyelids with a blue powder and lined them with kohl. She applied rouge lightly to her cheeks and, as a final touch, painted her lips a brilliant carmine.
    The slave stepped back and regarded her creation with obvious satisfaction. She slid a pair of decorated babouche slippers on Bryna’s feet. The backless shoes were made of fine scarlet Moroccan leather and fit perfectly.
    Her job complete, she led Bryna to a tall mirror that hung nearby. Bryna stared at her reflection incredulously. Her costume made her look exotic and seductive, but her cheeks reddened with a contradictory blush. The plunging neckline of her gossamer dress left little to the imagination. Involuntarily her fingers plucked at it, drawing the edges together for modesty’s sake. Secretly amused by her reaction, the Berber girl bowed and departed, leaving her to locate her companions in separate corners of the room.
    “What do you suppose happens next?” Pamela asked no one in particular. Refreshed from her bath, the English girl seemed calmer now. Dressed in a pink-and-silver caftan similar to Bryna’s, she looked soft and almost relaxed.
    Theresa glanced at her distractedly but did not answer as she paced the length of the narrow room. Conversation was forgotten when three servants appeared with their lunch. The women were