He saw the marks of a strap, or a whip, across her back. When a brawl broke out in that hot, dusty souk, she had run for shelter immediately behind a large earthenware pot. And that was where eleven-year-old Antonino d'Anzeray, separated from his brother Ramon in the rush and clamor, found her. Approaching the same hiding place, he saw her back turned toward him and witnessed the cruel marks through her torn clothing. She must have heard steps behind her and turned to see him there. Her skin was dark, her hair long and shining, pulled into a snake-like braid. Her eyes, as they assessed him sharply, were bright but not with fear. Despite all the chaos erupting around her, she was oddly calm. The strange light in her eyes, when she looked at him, was curiosity. It was also, he thought, slightly disdainful. She chattered at him in a rapid, foreign tongue, and he was quite sure that whatever she said was an insult. Her manner was scolding and scornful. Gesturing at the pot behind which they hid, she then pointed to herself and repeated the stream of incomprehensible words.
