Madrid, 1492

The clear morning light shone in through the low window from the Plaza de la Paja. It reflected around the whitewashed walls of the small kitchen before pooling in a golden beam on the painstakingly polished wood of the central table. Slowly, it lit the face of the man who sat at it until he shifted his chair moving his eyes out of range of the piercing light.

Even seated he was a tall man and his rich bronze skin glowed against the lighter layers of his clothes. Unconsciously, born of some old habit, he would raise his fingers to his short black beard, rubbing his chin in the place where a long white scar had once run.

His companion watched him, the gesture familiar to her now as one he used when deep in thought. Rhythmically her hands slapped and kneaded the lump of dough that would become their evening meal. She only paused in this familiar task to wipe a smudge of flour from one alabaster cheek with the semi-clean back of a sticky hand or to push one strand of deep chestnut hair behind her ear until she could tuck it back into the braided mass coiled at the nape of her neck.

“I’m worried, Ysabel,” the man said at last, his soft yet resonant voice filling the tiny room.

“We are all worried, Hamid,” the woman reminded him her hands still pushing the fragrant dough. “But there is nothing to be done. People will come to their senses eventually. We just have to get through until then.”

“I’m not so sure of that anymore,” Hamid confessed, his dark eyes flashing. “The last body from the fall of Granada has barely had time to get cold before they break their most solemn word.” His hand dropped from his chin to slap the table with a ringing thump, his voice darkened with anger. “They lied, Ysabel. Our most noble, and loving sovereigns lied. They have already expelled the Jews; soon they will be coming after me as well. I cannot stay any longer. And you ought not. Our kind will not be safe.”

She was spared from answering as a jumble of children poured down the stairs and into the room.

“Senor Alameda?” the oldest one asked as the other two tumbled into his arms with a joyous shout. “I thought I recognized your dulcet tones.”

“If I had known that you lazybones would still be in bed rather than helping your Madre I would have shouted all the earlier.” Gently he reached over and pretended to swat the side of her head. “Cheeky little bird.”

Smiling genially at the assembled flock he reached into his pocket and produced a small, brightly wrapped package. Holding it above their heads and just out of reach he winked at Ysabel. “I believe someone has a birthday today,” he said as though to no one in particular.

“Me?” Mateo asked hopefully remembering the small yet joyous festivities that had been produced for that happy occasion.

“Not you, you goose,” seven year old Catalina said fully mindful of the three years that separated her in her old age from his childish foolishness. “He means Marina.”

“That I do, little one,” Hamid said to the crestfallen Mateo. “But here is something to ease the sting a little bit.” From the depths of his pockets he suddenly produced an orange, a treat which Mateo hugged between his chubby fingers in evident delight. Catalina quickly schooled the flash of disappointment from her face, fully prepared to show how little she cared for such trifles when a second orange was pressed into her fingers.

“Thank you, Senor Alameda. Oh, thank you,” she squealed, holding the pungent fruit to her nose and glorying in its citrus smell.

“You spoil my children terribly,” Ysabel complained despite the smile lighting her wan face.

“Nonsense,” Hamid replied cheerfully pressing the colorful package into Marina’s hand. “Besides, it’s good for them.” His glance lingered on Mateo’s enraptured face. “Look at how his eyes are shining,” he murmured softly.

Understanding, Ysabel reached out and placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Amir would have been his age now.”

He nodded, unable to speak for a moment. “I still look up sometimes and think that he and Fatimah are back, that they have just stepped out for a moment and will return. That I could do something to bring them back.”

“It was typhus, Hamid. There was nothing you could do. And the Healers were simply too drained…” Each gazed out with distant eyes at the ghosts of the past, haunting the room.

“Oh, Senor, it’s beautiful!” Marina exclaimed, delicately lifting a silver chain from the wrapping. A small silver bird dangled from the sparkling length, its wings caught outstretched in flight. “Gracias!”

“A guardian angel for my cheeky little bird,” Hamid said, slowly forcing his natural joviality past the sadness left in his voice.

“A dove,” Ysabel corrected, far more mindful of blasphemy uttered under the shadow of the Inquisition, “the Holy Ghost descending.”

“That too,” he agreed. “The chain is spelled never to break, and neither the chain nor the bird shall tarnish.”

“Gracias,” Marina gushed again as he fastened the chain around her neck. “Senor, you are the nicest person I know.” Quickly she ran to pull a pan from the wall and try to see her refection in its polished bottom.

Smiling indulgently, he turned back to Ysabel. “What I said earlier still stands. I am leaving this place, soon, before the witch hunts get worse.”

There was a loud crash as Marina dropped the pan. “No, you can’t go!” she said aghast.

“Little bird, I must. To our gracious monarchs I am already an infidel, they will continue to expel and harass my people, and we no longer even have the protection of Granada.”

“But what about us?” Catalina cried, uncertain of what was going on but ready to fly at anyone who would harm her friend.

“I do not know,” Hamid said, his gaze darting toward Ysabel’s unreadable face. “I would like you to come with me, far beyond the reaches of the Inquisition. Witchcraft is heresy,” he murmured for her ears alone, “and you would burn for it. All of you.”

“No,” she said firmly, although a shadow of pain flickered quickly across her face. “We will go nowhere until Tomas is back.”

“Ysabel, no one knows when that ship will return if it ever will. The entire journey and that Genoese man are mad. I don’t know why you ever allowed Tomas to go, but now you have to do what is best for you and the children!”

She whirled on him, the fire in her eyes rivaling any auto-de-fete. “He will come back. I know it. He will. And we will go nowhere until he does.” She softened, gazing over the small room filled with anxious faces. “He is my husband, Hamid. I will not leave him.”

Sadly he gazed at her as though memorizing her face forever. “I would not ask you to.”

One by one, he drew each child into his embrace. “Mateo, you look bigger and stronger every day. Don’t forget to listen to your Madre; you are the man in the house now. Catalina, pretty little one, don’t let your tongue grow too sharp or you shall frighten off all the boys. Oh, but they will be flocking to you when they see your sweet face. And Marina, my little bird, this time I am the one flying away. Keep that necklace as a reminder of your old friend from better days. Perhaps it shall bring you good luck.”

There was a moment of silence and then he was at the door. “We shall pray for you,” Ysabel called, her eyes bright with tears.

“And I for you. May Allah keep you all.”

Only after he was gone did Marina realize she had been clutching the necklace so tightly that the imprint of the bird was left, etched into the skin of her palm.

Bangkok, 1858

The hot sun glanced off the water of the khlongs, splitting into a myriad of rainbows beneath the crystalline flow. The river banks were awash with color as women did their washing and traders held market from their boats. Gemma sat quietly on the stiff, wooden seat of the boat as it rowed up the narrow canal. Her light summer dress felt heavy and damp from the humid air and her own nervous perspiration.

The great white bulk of the Royal Place overshadowed the city, drawing her eye to its elegant lines over the other buildings which dwindled by comparison. Gemma gaped at its splendor, so different from the cool English moors and hot Indian sands that she knew.

At last the boat glided to a stop outside a tall brick building. A profusion of tropical flowers rioted behind a demure wooden fence. Smaller, palm thatched buildings nestled behind and to the sides of their larger brick neighbor like humble ladies in waiting dancing attendance on a queen.

“Is this it?” Gemma asked nervously as the man handed her out of the boat. “Is this the British Consulate?”

The little bronzed sailor ducked his head nervously at her. “Yes, Miss.” Only straining slightly he heaved her wooden trunk up and onto the stony patch of land at her feet. “Is there anything else you’ll be needing, Miss?”

“Yes, I mean, no. No thank you,” Gemma said distractedly, her head spinning with worry.

He gave her a friendly smile, an assurance she was grateful for in her uncertain state. “I’ll be off then. And I’m sure the Consulate will do everything in his power to help you.”

Despite her best intentions, Gemma could feel her bottom lip quivering slightly as the small boat drew away, her last tie to home fading into the distance. One small, white hand reached up to the silver bird that hung on a chain around her neck, her fingers stroking the cold metal as she had often seen her mother do when deep in thought.

For a moment, the glimmer of tears hung in her eyes before she resolutely blinked them away, flinging back her head, chin held high, and knocked a smart beat against the warm, wooden door.

It was pulled open almost immediately by a small Siamese man impeccably dressed in an English morning suit. “May I help you, Mem?” he asked solicitously, his light Siamese accent stilting the words in a pleasant way.

Gathering her scattered wits and faded courage Gemma replied, “I’d like to see Mr. James Goedian.”

“I am afraid that Sir is very busy at the moment, but perhaps if you would care to wait or leave your card…”

At the man’s words, Gemma felt something inside of her begin to wilt. She would not cry, she promised herself fiercely. She would not. Her chin snapped up under the strength of her resolution. “He’ll see me,” she interrupted the poor man, pushing past him and through the closed office door.

The tall man inside looked up, startled, his tawny eyes narrowing with irritation as he reprimanded, “I thought I said I wasn’t to be disturbed, Ibrahim.”

His sentence cut off in surprise as Gemma threw her arms around his neck with a desperate cry of, “Uncle Jim,” and began sobbing into his neatly pressed lapel.

“Gemma?” James demanded startled. “What the devil are you doing here? Where are your parents?”

Gemma gave one last heartfelt sob before pulling herself together. Gratefully she sank into the chair he offered her, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the arms tightly. “You didn’t get my letter then?”

“I’ve heard nothing from you or your mother for the better part of a year,” James replied kindly, a puzzled frown on his face.

“Oh, oh,” Gemma exclaimed fitfully, “I hate not being able to use owl post!” Closing her eyes she drew a deep breath and continued. “You heard, I suppose, about the Mutiny in India?”

“Yes, your father wrote that he was sending you and your mother home to England for safety, that he had already sent you out of Delhi.”

“Yes,” Gemma agreed sadly. “That was the plan. But we never made it to England, we barely made it halfway to Bombay when… when mother… oh, Uncle Jim!”

His face drained white as she spoke, but the comforting hands he placed on her shoulders were gentle if a bit shaky. “It’s all right, dear. Just tell me what happened.” His voice constricted on the last words as he thought of his sister, lying cold and alone, deep in foreign ground.

“Cholera. One day she telling me all the wonderful things we would do when we got home to England, and the next she lay there, burning up, without even the strength to say a word or sip down water.”

They sat, side by side, sharing each other’s grief and taking comfort in it.

“But why did you not return to your father?” James queried at last, breaking the silence.

“He was killed at Delhi. I had no place to go, not even enough money to buy passage to England let alone anyplace to go when I reached there. I didn’t know what to do, so I came here, to you.”

“You did the right thing,” James replied at last, and Gemma could feel the relief coursing through her veins. “Although I must be honest with you, I’ve little notion of what to do with a young woman such as yourself.”

Gemma fell on her knees before his chair with a thump. “Please don’t send me away,” she begged. “I can’t bear to lose another member of my family.”

Pulling her to her feet, James smiled slightly, admiring how well the mother’s flair for the dramatic had transferred to her daughter. “I’ll not be sending you away,” he assured her. “But you must understand that Siam is not a colony like India. It may be a more difficult transition for you than you think.”

“It won’t,” Gemma declared firmly. “I won’t let it. I know it shall be perfectly wonderful here.”

“All right, but you must promise to listen to me when I tell you things. The customs here are very different. You are a Missie Sahib no longer. And how have your lesson come?”

“I’m excellent in Charms, my Ayah taught me ever so many, and had me practice them morning, noon, and night.”

James smiled and asked offhandedly, “a very useful accomplishment. But how are your Transfiguration, Arithmancy, History, and Runes?”

“Passable.” Gemma wilted under the knowing look he gave her. “Well, terrible really. I simply can’t make out Arithmancy at all.”

Walking over to his desk, James made several quick notes to himself. “School, then. There is a decent one in one of the old temples, which one was it… Ah, here we are. I’ll send a note down to the Head directly.”

“School in a temple?” Gemma laughed. “Isn’t that odd.”

“It is a peaceful place where you will not be disturbed,” James reprimanded. “The monks and temples of Buddhism are afforded great respect, and you would do well to remember it.”

“Yes, sir.”

James smiled at the demure look on her face; how similar it looked to the one that was now dead and gone, one he had not seen in over five years, one he had never had a chance to say goodbye to.

“I’ll have Ibrahim set your things up in the back bedroom; it can be yours for as long as you wish it.” He smiled wearily, his eyes traveling down the careworn, yet glowing face of his niece. One finger reached out to gently stroke the silver bird at her throat. “I remember when mother gave that to Cecelia,” his voice choked once more with grief and remembrance. “It was on the day she married George, your father. She was going to give it to you on your wedding day as well.”

Gemma nodded softly. “Giving it to me was the last thing she did before she died.”

Gently, tentatively, James bent over to place a tender kiss on her forehead. “Go wash up. I’ll have Ibrahim get us some fruit and curry for dinner. You must be hungry from your travels.”

“Yes, uncle.” With the slightest of curtsies, Gemma allowed herself to be led from the room.

As the door swung shut behind her, James sank into his chair, his bent head looking a little greyer under the hot Siamese sun, and his tearstained face buried into the palms of his hands.

Algiers, 1973

Maura watched the blue-green waves of the Mediterranean lap against the piers of the quay. El-Badjha, this glistening white city was nothing like the barren wasteland littered with small huts that she had expected to find when she had first joined the program. Strolling up from the harbor, she could see how this portion of the city had earned the name, “little Europe.”

However, it was just as difficult for her to reconcile the explosions and blood stained rubble that had made the papers not quite ten years ago with this busy boulevard lined with its elegant, tall, white buildings. Her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment as she remembered her involuntary exclamation when the boat had first drawn in to port. “This can’t be it,” she had said with a mixture of horror and surprise, “it doesn’t look like Africa!”

A few of the volunteers had snickered, and she knew that they would be calling her the “not-Africa-girl” for months to come. Maura had wanted to say something, to protest that her only views of this far off country had been from books showing only the empty desert with a few camels clustered around a drying up oasis or the violent clippings in the newspapers which her parents had tried to hide from her. But she had held her tongue while her cheeks grew redder and redder and the hint of tears began to sting her eyes.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Maura started at the sudden voice in her ear, before smiling up at the tall black man at her side. “I forgot you were here,” she confessed guiltily.

His dark eyes twinkled as he replied, “I never would have guessed.”

Not wanting to confess the real reason she had been so distracted, Maura lied, “I was thinking about how if Mum knew how beautiful it was here, she would understand why I want to stay.”

“You are of age,” Ethan reminded her.

“I know.” Maura sighed with frustration. “But, I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not like I need her blessing or anything, it’s just, and mind you I know how silly this sounds, I don’t want whatever good I feel like I’m doing here tainted by any bad blood back home.” She squinted up at him through the afternoon sun. “Do I sound crazy?”

“Nah, I had the same problem. Took me ages to win me Da around to the idea of me taking off to come halfway around the world. I think he was still pretty broken up about Mam’s death. He only consented when he realized Susie’d still be around for another year or two.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Everybody’s got shit like that in their lives. My troubles are nothing compared to some of the kids we are working with. This city needs peace more than I do. That’s why we are here.”

For a moment they both stood, looking down the hill to where the clear water gently rippled in the harbor. A small bird, indistinguishable from such a distance looped and dove, brushing its wingtips through the froth of each wave. At last even he disappeared over the horizon.

Maura sighed, quickly bringing herself back to the real world. Tucking a few windblown strands of chestnut hair behind her ear, she fished a few spare hairpins from her pocket. “I think I’m going to head up to the office and check for mail. Need anything?”

“Not really,” Ethan confessed. “But if you don’t mind my presence I might join you. Perhaps I’ll catch Josef up there, and corner him about helping with my transfiguration lesson.”

Maura laughed. “Good luck with that.” Josef, one of the program directors was, as the saying goes, busy as a bee. Not only did he care for the twenty-seven volunteers in the city, but he still found time to work on his pet project of starting a hospital like St. Mungo’s. The Algerian War for Independence had quickly proven the insufficiencies of the scattered Healers when faced with the mounting casualties.

Slowly, they sauntered through the hot afternoon air, leaving behind the wide orderly boulevards for the twisty and narrow streets of the Kasbah. Maura stopped in front of the door of an old rug shop, her nose twitching from the dust blowing off the ragged overhand. She darted inside before she would sneeze.

“I hate this part,” Ethan muttered into her ear as they stood in front of one of the hanging rugs.

Maura stifled a giggle as she said, “volunteers Maura Lansing and Ethan Wright, main office level please.”

Slowly, the carpet wrapped around them, encasing them in a tube of fabric no more than four feet wide. A gentle lurch made Maura grab Ethan’s arm for stability. His eyes were screwed firmly closed and he muttered softly, “there’s plenty of space, not at all cramped, plenty of space…”

Only a moment later their textile chamber ground to a halt and slowly unfurled into a plain hanging once more. A sign on the wall, so new that the paint still looked wet, read, “Wizards Without Borders: you too, can make a difference.”

“Merlin, that’s wretched,” Ethan moaned miserably as he staggered forward. “I’ll never be able to get used to it.”

“Oh, stop being such a baby,” Maura commanded, punching his arm. “And look, lucky you, you’ve even managed to catch Josef- if you hurry.”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Ethan was sprinting down the hall after the retreating figure. “Josef, wait! Just the person I wanted to see!”

Maura smiled, shaking her head as she made her way over to the mail desk. “Good afternoon, Ahmed. Have there been any owls for me today?”

The bearded man behind the desk looked up from his paper and beamed at her. “I think there may have been something,” he replied while searching for her pigeon hole. “Here we go. And how are your charms classes going?”

“Quite well! The students are all working and trying so hard,” Maura gushed, proud of her charges. “And this morning little Muhammad, the Healer’s boy, performed a nearly perfect cheering charm on his second try. They’re all just so hungry for knowledge!”

Ahmed gravely nodded his head. “Since we threw the French out, schooling is a privilege. Even before then few children could go to the French wizard’s schools. So you see, we are all very grateful for the miracles that you volunteers have brought about.”

Maura smiled weakly, feeling her cheeks reddening under his praise. With a quick farewell she beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the room.

The envelope he had passed her was heavier than usual, and she tore into the thick parchment with mingled feelings of dread and anticipation. As she pulled out the letter, a silver necklace tumbled out of the envelope. Bemused, Maura recognized it as the silver bird her mother wore, a good luck charm that had been passed down for generations. Curious as to its appearance she turned to the letter.

Dear Maura,

I know that we do not always share the same opinions as to what the future holds for you. But, as your father has reminded me, you are of age, and a talented and intelligent witch. I selfishly wanted to keep my little girl at home and safe from the world. I realize now that I can’t do that anymore. It is time for you to fly out on your own, little bird. And so as my mother once passed this necklace on to me when I began a new life with your father, and like her mother before her, I now pass it on to you. May it protect you where I cannot, and remind you that wherever your wings may take you, those back home will always love you. Take care, little bird, and come home to see us from time to time.

Love,
Mother

Smiling at the paper in her hand, Maura quickly clasped the silver chain behind her neck. “Ethan!” she cried, running towards him down the hall. “I can stay! I can stay!”