You will learn what it means to be truly poor, and you will gain respect for your new sister-wife, he’d said. Umm al-Masakin’s face shone when we told her the news. “What an honor,” she gushed. An honor! By al-Lah, was I the angel Gabriel? But then she turned and bowed to me, warming me to her. Muhammad might consider me a child, as our ill-fated evening of “romance” had shown, but that didn’t have to be my downfall, I’d realized. Lying in his arms that night as he drank deep draughts of sleep, I’d blinked against the dark and my tears and asked al-Lah why I had to fight for all I wanted. Yet as I listed my opponents, I saw that they weren’t so formidable. Ali was a vexation, not a danger. Umar was all bluster. Hafsa had become my ally, no longer interested in being hatun. Nor, apparently, was Mother of the Poor a threat to my status. I’d feel more secure once I and Muhammad had consummated our marriage, but in the meantime I could hold my ground against the new wife.
