He can do what he wants with me. I’m completely at his mercy.
More nerves quaked at how flimsy my existence was as I stepped off the elevator onto the top deck and padded barefoot on the polished, silky wood. My fingers never let go of my genie lamp. Elder had bought me clothes and kept me fed, but it was the first thing I’d been given that was frivolous and unnecessary to survival—apart from my origami gifts.
It’s mine.
An intense need to keep it close enveloped me. It was such a new possession, but I was in love with it as much as I’d been with my Minnie Mouse watch my dad had given and my murderer had stolen.
Squinting in the russet aging sun, I spotted him.
He stood at the front of the yacht. The telltale sweet smoke wisped around his head as he faced out to sea. His back remained taut and tense, his shoulders locked in stress. He didn’t look around as I moved toward the side, drinking in the departing scene of Morocco at sunset.
The dusty city changed from every-day colours to drenched in orange and sienna. People moved like ants in the distance, and even now, a faint smell of curry and exotic spices carried on the breeze.
I kept Elder locked in my peripheral, watching but pretending otherwise. I wanted to judge him—to read his thoughts, to understand my stability in his life. Was he rethinking keeping me? After saying no to Dafford, did he think about the possibility of selling me to another who he approved of?
Navigating the harbour, the captain slowly opened up the engines, speeding us farther and farther from the man who’d reminded me that the world was no longer a safe place, no matter where I lived.
England, America, Morocco—each was tainted by evil running unrepentant over good. How did anyone stay decent when self-obsession and lawlessness seemed to favour the bold?
Was that what happened to Elder?
Had he once been a normal son, brother, and friend—then lost sight of his goodness and embraced bad instead?
I never moved from my spot on the railing, my fingers warming the genie lamp. Other vessels and tanker ships were our neighbours as we steadily made our way out to sea. As Morocco slowly turned from large cosmopolitan to toy city, I made my first wish.
I wish to no longer have a dollar value that people can bargain and buy.
The universe offered no answer, and I placed my elbows on the railing, letting the water world put me in a trance.
* * * * *
An hour or so later, stars blanketed the sky and my stomach rumbled for food. Elder’s weed cigarette had long since been smoked and he stalked past my resting spot without a word.
My skin tickled with rejection. He’d seen me but hadn’t stopped.
Why?
What did he mean about being my genie? Did he think he could grant me happiness again? Could he somehow remove the torture and pain associated with sex and leave me normal—so I might run toward rather than away from the electricity between us?
Trapped by yet more questions, I headed below and entered my suite. There, I found dinner waiting for me on my dining table—pan-fried fish with couscous and a tagine full of roasted vegetables.
Something inedible also waited, tucked carefully next to aromatic food: a folded masterpiece in the shape of an exquisite dollar rose.
An origami creation denoting my worth to the printed value of one hundred pennies.
The contorted money flipped my stomach and made me sad at the same time.
Whatever had happened between us yesterday—the almost kiss, pickpocketing, and meeting the prince and princess—today had ruined it.
Knowing without being told I would be undisturbed for the rest of the night, I pushed the dress off my shoulders, stepped from the puddle, and sat down to my meal with my dollar rose.
Alone.
* * * * *
Three days passed.
They were the worst since Elder had saved me.
Not because he was cruel or violent, not even because he avoided me and only graced me with tight glances and surly commands to eat, rest, and get out of his way so he could work in peace.
But because he pulled away from me.
So much for his comment about being my genie.
No matter how much I rubbed that little lamp, I received no magical smoke or mystical being ready to listen and deliver.
He no longer made an effort to ask me questions. He didn’t command me to bring the wooden notebook to him and write replies to things he wanted to know.
He just stopped caring.
As if…as if…the thought of doing yet more for me, when he’d seen how totally ruined my mind was, was no longer feasible but stupid—a total waste of time.
He’d been slapped with alternatives. I wasn’t what he wanted. I could no longer be his crucifix to bear. He might get off on bringing me back from the dead, but he’d never get me to sleep with him willingly. He’d never hear the secrets he wanted to hear.