Their laughter broke again, ringing freely along the banks, while Zahra and Mariam could only exchange weary glances—they had long surrendered to the pair's indomitable spirits.
The walk home felt different.
Conversations thinned. Eyes lingered longer than before—no longer curious, but measuring.
"The wazir's daughter wandering like a date seller…" muttered a middle-aged man.
Layla snorted. Aisha's smile remained, but her eyes gleamed like steel.
"Let them stare," she said softly. "Perhaps they are unaccustomed to seeing intellect walk unbound."
Mariam approached, hesitant.
"Miss, we should return without delay."
Aisha drew the curtain of her sedan chair. Her smile persisted—yet her chest felt alight with quiet fire.
---
Afternoon — Al-Fadl Residence
No sooner had she settled than a servant appeared, breathless.
"The wazir requests your presence in the meeting room, Miss. A guest has arrived."
Layla paused mid-chew, a date dangling from her fingers.
"An important guest?"
"The palace circle," whispered Zahra. "And they are not known for kindness."
Meeting Room — Just Before Maghrib
The scent of incense hung thick in the air. Al-Fadl sat with impeccable posture, calm yet wearied, while bearded men spoke in measured turns. A qadi from Baghdad led the discourse.
"…We've heard that your daughter has been wandering about the city—nay, even centers of learning. At sixteen, would it not be prudent to Have her married at once her soon, lest scandal befall her?"
Aisha paused at the threshold, listening intently.
"Enter, Aisha," her father commanded.
She seated herself with grace.
Al-Fadl cast his daughter a brief glance—a warning only shared blood could understand.
Aisha. Be silent.
"A woman who wanders too freely," the qadi continued, "risks inviting trouble."
Aisha raised an eyebrow, her lips nearly parting in surprise.
"Aisha," Al-Fadl's voice was low, restraining.
Yet Aisha still turned to the qadis.
"Rest assured, sir. I have no wish to sow disorder. I merely set out to learn and to see the city of Baghdad," she said evenly.
"Not to cause trouble, as you presume."
A hush fell over the room.
"A noblewoman should not speak in such a manner."
"To think for herself?" Aisha interjected lightly. "Forgive me—I nearly forgot."
She met each gaze in turn.
"Sixteen years old," Aisha said quietly. "They speak of it as the age for marriage—
but never as the age when a woman is still allowed to learn."
The thought surprised her.
Since when had such questions taken root in my mind?
Her tone did not rise.
"Would it not serve better for a woman to be educated first… before she is asked to raise generations?"
The qadi frowned, unsettled.
"I have been in Baghdad for but a single day," Aisha continued, "and already you grow uneasy at the sight of a woman walking freely."
"This girl will bring calamity," someone muttered.
Aisha's lips curved into a serene, almost mischievous smile.
At last, Al-Fadl spoke, his voice calm yet resolute.
"My daughter transgresses no decorum. She wanders not without my leave—everything she does is sanctioned by me."
The qadis departed, leaving a silence pregnant with understanding.
And that day, Aisha knew:
Learning was never a mere option.
It unsettled people too easily to be harmless—
a quiet rebellion, stubborn enough to survive attempts at extinction.
---
Baghdad — two days after the reprimand from the court Islamic Scholars.
Aisha sat on the window ledge, tossing dates one by one into the garden below. Not to eat them—the dates became small targets for her anger. Anger at Baghdad. Anger at the scholars who believed women were meant only to sit prettily behind curtains.
On the floor, Layla busied herself picking at the embroidery on Aisha's sandals.
"Angry because they called you a troublemaker?" she asked lightly.
"I'm angry because they're afraid of women who free," Aisha muttered. Her eyes burned, sharp as the edge of her voice.
Layla raised an eyebrow and looked at her. "So… your solution?"
Aisha turned quickly, as if struck by a mischievous idea. "I need to leave the house, Layla. I long to explore the city without restrictions."
"Where? You were just reprimanded by the Qadhi," Layla straightened, concern slipping into her voice.
"To the market," Aisha replied, smiling—reckless, defiant. "Without Father's permission."
Layla froze. "You are the vizier's daughter!"
"Exactly because of that. I want to know what it feels like to walk without a title, without greetings that weigh and measure. Just as an ordinary woman."
Layla swallowed, then sighed. "You truly intend to disguise yourself?"
"We will disguise ourselves," Aisha said firmly. "Slip into the market. Observe, record, learn. Like palace spies."
Layla rolled her eyes, half worried. "May the Messenger of God not look down from the heavens and expel you from Paradise before you finish speaking."
Aisha laughed softly. "You exaggerate."
That Morning at the Old Market
The clucking of chickens, the creaking of cart wheels, and the cries of merchants merged into a restless clamor. In a narrow corner near the rear gate of the vizier's residence, two women in coarse robes slipped into the human current. Their veils were drawn low, obscuring their faces; their movements awkward—clearly not women of the market.
"This robe itches like it's inhabited by ants," Layla complained, scratching her neck.
"Be grateful it's not straw—that was my first idea," Aisha shot back, grinning.
They paused at a perfume stall, pretending to examine small glass bottles while scanning their surroundings.
From an alley opposite came a loud voice. "Hey! You! That isn't yours!"
All heads turned. An elderly merchant pointed at a young man flipping through a stack of secondhand books.
The young man remained seated, his voice calm as he replied, "I am only reading, sir. Not stealing." His tone was cool, controlled.
Aisha and Layla narrowed their eyes from behind a row of clay jars. His face was partly hidden by a turban, but his movements revealed something more—an unshakable composure not common among market folk.
The merchant snorted and let him go. The young man rose slowly and walked past Aisha, barely turning his head. For a fleeting instant, his gaze swept over her—brief, precise.
"Did you see that?" Aisha whispered.
"Which part?" Layla murmured.
"The worn turban, the sharp eyes—and those hands. I'm certain they're usually stained with ink at the fingertips." Aisha swallowed, intrigued.
They continued down a narrow alley behind the spice stalls. The scent of cardamom and dates mingled with the breath of passersby. A child suddenly darted across, clutching a sack of figs, gasping for air.
From afar, a shout rang out. "That's mine! Thief!"
Aisha reacted instantly, stopping the child. Before she could speak, the turbaned young man from earlier approached.
He studied the child briefly, then turned to Aisha.
"Well done. You question a caught child, yet your method is… interesting. A theatrical approach to conceal curiosity, my lady."
Aisha met his gaze, a faint smile on her lips.
"If you wish to be the market's moral judge, there is a place for that. Otherwise, move along. I am busy helping."
He restrained a laugh that nearly surfaced.
"Few women in this market speak as though debating in a scholarly assembly."
The words echoed in Aisha's mind. He was not a scholar—yet his tone provoked something deeper than irritation: curiosity. A curiosity that reached beyond a sharp tongue.
Layla pressed Aisha's arm, eyes full of anxiety.
"We should leave, before he asks more questions."
Aisha shrugged, then watched the young man's retreating back. There was a faint ink stain on his fingers; his clothes carried the scent of manuscripts—paper dust and oil. Not danger, but a sign of a different life.
"Perhaps he is a young man unaware he has just crossed paths with a future scholar," Aisha murmured, half mocking, half intrigued.
Layla stared, then laughed softly. "Your arrogance has returned."
They had just exited the alley when Layla let out a long breath.
"You're far too daring, Aisha… if someone recognizes you as the vizier's daughter, we both—" She left the sentence hanging, fear evident.
Aisha turned sharply, eyes blazing.
"Layla! You're being fat!" she exclaimed—half angry, half teasing.
"Too pampered and too afraid to see the world! You nearly stripped me of my courage just by being frightened!"
Layla lowered her head, cheeks flushed. "I… I only want us to be safe."
Aisha stepped closer, tapping her shoulder—light, yet firm.
"Is safety sitting forever behind a curtain? Waiting for others to write your life? I refuse. You must learn to be brave—not just silent while chewing dates!"
Layla looked up at her, startled, then chuckled despite her nerves.
"All right… I'll try… brave."
Aisha smiled faintly. "That's the spirit I want. Now walk—and don't turn back too quickly."
They moved away from the market, footsteps echoing along streets growing quieter.
But Aisha knew—this walk was no longer merely rebellion. Something had been left behind in the market—not just the gaze of a stranger, but a spark of inquiry she could not extinguish.
If men believed knowledge belonged to them, then perhaps the only answer was to touch it—
to write, to question, to refuse silence.
The thought unsettled her. She did not dismiss it.
Questions bloomed in her mind. About law. About justice. About knowledge that could nurture—or oppress.
---
That day, Aisha realized that answers are sometimes not found in the kitchen… but among the rows of books.
And night slowly descended upon Baghdad, concealing two young figures beginning to write their fate with the imprint of their steps.
And Aisha knew—even the night could not hide a young man with eyes that sharp.