The Deadliest Strain

Chapter Forty-Eight

Fahimah held her sister's hand as the nurse gave Rahaf a shot of morphine. One of the doctors had stepped out only moments before. He'd whispered to Fahimah that these could be her sister's last moments.

She placed a kiss on the fragile fingers. Once again, there seemed to be no end to her tears. She had no will left to fight them. The sorrow was overwhelming her.

"We're at the reflecting pool," Rahaf breathed. "Do you see the hanging mist?"

Fahimah looked at her sister. Her green eyes were distant. She had a smile on her face.

"Yes, I do, my love. We are at Tagh-e-Bostan."

"Do you remember her poems?" Rahaf asked. "The Saint of Basra?"

Fahimah didn't need any book of verse. For five years the Sufi poet's words had carried her. She recited them softly, as she remembered them. As she wanted to remember them.

"'Oh, my joy, my dream, my support. My friend, my precious one, my intention. You are the soul of my heart, my hope. You are my comfort — your desire sustains me.'"

Rahaf's lips kissed their joined fingers. She closed her eyes.

"So many blessings you have given me, my sister. Now your love is my desire and my heaven. It clears the path to my captured heart. Now, so long as I live, I will not be apart from you. You are my strength when I despair. If you are pleased with me, then — my heart — my happiness has begun."

The fingers relaxed in Fahimah's hand. She reached out and touched Rahaf's face. She was gone.

"I will not be apart from you," she whispered. "Firishte."