The Princess Brides. Jane Porter

blue and white striped stalls, the massive clay pots of pink and green olives, baskets piled high with dried dates and apricots, the pervasive spice of peppers, and all the while the hot wind brushing and whipping the fronds so the very air seemed to whisper.

      Exquisite, she thought, taking it all in, savoring all that was new and mysterious.

      ‘‘Balek!’’ a man shouted, lumbering past with a cart full of goods.

      Balek. Nic smiled. Watch yourself. She’d understood the Arabic word.

      Contented, Nic followed Fatima around the parameter of the bustling square, the old buildings fronted by hundreds of souks, each one selling something different, just as each merchant sized the shopper up, setting new and different prices.

      Now and then she stopped to examine intriguing merchandise and gradually Nic forgot Fatima’s hostility, losing herself in the pleasure of being somewhere altogether new.

      As she moved slowly from one seller to another, the sun beat down on her head, the rays penetrating her dark jellaba. Time to turn back, she thought. But looking up, hoping to catch Fatima’s eye, Nic realized she’d lost Malik’s cousin somewhere along the way. Surprised, but not distressed, Nic actually felt…relief. She’d been in many foreign countries, traveled a great deal. It didn’t cross her mind to feel fear. Instead, for one brief moment, she felt free. No Fatima, no sultan, no marriage, no worries.

      And with that thought in mind, she wished she had money on her and she’d find a cafe´ somewhere and buy an iced coffee and just sit in the shade and watch everyone. Atiq was amazing and Nic loved the medina, responding to the history of the inner city with the cobbled streets, whitewashed buildings and dazzling sunlight.

      A hand touched her arm and Nic turned. An older woman stood before her, the woman’s gray hair partially covered with a long scarf. ‘‘Lost?’’ The elderly woman asked.

      Nic smiled. ‘‘A little.’’

      The woman stared up at Nic for a minute, her dark eyes puzzled. ‘‘You are a very beautiful lady,’’ she said in her halting English.

      ‘‘Thank you. Merci,’’ Nic answered, switching to French hoping it’d be easier for the older woman. ‘‘That’s lovely of you to say.’’

      The woman smiled gratefully. ‘‘You’re not American?’’ she asked in French.

      ‘‘No.’’

      The older woman’s mouth pursed as she studied Nic’s face. ‘‘French?’’

      ‘‘Half.’’ Quarter, actually. Julien, her father had been half-French, half-Spanish.

      Suddenly the old woman wagged her finger. Her frown faded as she smiled, deep lines creasing her skin. ‘‘I know who you look like.’’ She beamed wider. ‘‘The American singer. Star.’’

      Star. Mom. And Nic could see her mother, long dark hair, flashing eyes, a wicked sense of humor.

      ‘‘You know who I’m talking about?’’ The woman clasped Nic’s arm. ‘‘Superstar. Married a Spanish prince.’’

      But Mom didn’t marry a Spanish prince. He was a Melian prince. Her eyes felt gritty and she blinked, blaming the hot wind. ‘‘Thank you.’’

      She patted the older woman’s hand where it rested on her arm, the elderly woman’s fingers thin, the skin delicate. ‘‘I’m very flattered, and you are very kind.’’

      The woman beamed wider, spaces showing between her bottom teeth and reached up to pat Nic’s cheek. ‘‘Allah ihennik.’’ God make you safe.

      Nic’s heart squeezed. A lump filled her throat. ‘‘And you,’’ she murmured as the elderly woman shuffled away. She watched the elderly woman fade into the crowd.

      It’d been years since anyone said she looked like her mother. With her blonde hair, the family always said she was like Julien, but Nic remembered when she was little, her mother used to sit Nic on her lap and comb her long hair and point to their reflections in the mirror. ‘‘You have Mommy’s eyes,’’ her mother would say, drawing the boar bristle brush through Nic’s curls. ‘‘And you have Mommy’s mouth and chin.’’

      ‘‘And Mommy’s nonsense,’’ her father called to them from the bedroom where he’d inevitably be sitting in a chair, or lying in bed, with a stack of state documents. Her father was always reading, preparing, studying up on economies, politics, world events. No one cared more about the future than Prince Julien Ducasse.

      It was odd, Nic thought, setting off, threading her way through the crowd, but when her parents died everyone talked about what a tragedy it was, what a loss of beautiful young glamorous people. And beauty was all very nice and fine, but beauty wasn’t their strength. Their strength had been their intelligence, their spirit, their drive. Both her father and her mother were real people, not glossy paper dolls, or coat hangers for expensive couture.

      What a gift that elderly woman had given her today, what a lovely birthday gift. To be told she looked like her mother. To have a stranger stop her and say I see Star in you…

      Nic closed her eyes, pressed her hands to her heart, held all the emotion and welling of love inside.

      Now it was time to get back to Malik before he started worrying, and rounding a corner lined with narrow stalls, Nicolette glanced around, sensing she hadn’t gone in the right direction. Where had she made a wrong turn? Nothing looked familiar, but then, the maze of merchants and crowded souks was enough to disorient anyone.

      Standing at the corner, hands on hips, Nic became aware that she was drawing attention. Women avoided her but men were curious. It was obvious she was a foreigner, and even though she was wearing a traditional coverall, she stood out as different.

      Where was she? Where was the central market?

      What would Malik say when he found out she’d lost Fatima and was wandering somewhere inside the endless medina?

      Nic moved toward a woman to ask for directions but the woman drew her scarf closer to her face and hurried on.

      Nic wrinkled her nose. That was not the response she wanted. Glancing left, and then right, the streets much narrower than they had been earlier. What she needed to do was backtrack…

      Nic set off again, returning the way she’d come, but the street didn’t lead to the market. Instead the street ended in a narrow alley, and alley led to yet another alley.

      This was definitely not the right direction.

      Nic chewed the inside of her lip. The sun had dropped, but the heat was still intense, and there were fewer people out now.

      Nic batted a fly buzzing her face and sighed. She couldn’t panic. She hadn’t been gone that long. Twenty minutes. Thirty at the most.

      She rubbed the back of her arm across her eyes, catching the dampness on her brow. Think. Which way did you come? Where was the sun? In Baraka the markets—like the mosques—are built facing East. All she had to do was orient herself to the East and she’d find her way across.

      Malik was waiting at the side of the car when Fatima arrived alone. ‘‘Is the princess here?’’ Fatima asked, bending down to peer into the darkened car windows.

      He felt as if his heart stopped, his muscles turned to stone. ‘‘She’s supposed to be with you.’’

      Fatima looked at him, wide-eyed, innocent. ‘‘I thought we were together. We were just browsing through the market—’’

      ‘‘You lost her.’’

      ‘‘No.’’

      ‘‘You lost her.’’

      His normally quiet voice boomed. Fatima shook her head. ‘‘I didn’t. I thought she was with me. I was sure she was following me.’’