Back to the Abbasid Era, 817 CE
Residence of the Governor of Baghdad — Morning
Rummanah, Layla's loyal attendant since childhood, moved with quiet grace behind her mistress, balancing a small tray of perfume oil and a selection of scarves. Ten years Layla's senior, she had grown accustomed to reading her lady's moods as easily as one reads ink on parchment.
"Which one, my lady?" Rummanah asked, arranging the fabrics meticulously on the marble table. "The one that makes you look like a Damascene spy, or the kind worn by poets dying of unrequited love?"
Layla's fingers hovered over the scarves before settling on the darkest one. "That one."
Rummanah raised a single, knowing eyebrow. "Dark colors usually signal adventure… or mischief."
Layla smiled faintly. "You always prepare it without asking too many questions."
Rummanah's lips curved in a faint smirk. "If I asked," she said lightly, "your answers would make no sense anyway."
Outside, the morning breeze played gently with the silk curtains of the garden. Al-Hasan ibn Sahl and his wife sat beneath the gnarled branches of an olive tree, the morning sun painting golden highlights across their calm faces. Nearby, Khadijah Buran ran about, a whirlwind of laughter at only eight years old, pressing frangipani blossoms into her hair as if they were precious jewels.
"Father, do I look like the Persian queen you told me about?" Buran asked, her small voice brimming with excitement.
Al-Hasan laughed, a rich sound that seemed to make the leaves shiver with delight. "Then you must be one of them—a queen who writes poetry."
Rabiah, his wife, added flatly, "Though far more talkative than any poet I know."
Layla stepped closer, her heart beating in anticipation. Behind her, Rummanah carried a thin scarf and a small bundle, her hands steady but her mind alert, sensing the tension in the air.
"Ayah, Ibu," Layla greeted, bowing lightly. "There is a manuscript from Yemen. I wish to copy it—somewhere more open."
Al-Hasan's eyes narrowed, sharp as a hawk's.
"You are not planning to spend the night at the bimaristan again, are you?"
Layla froze, a flicker of unease passing across her face. How could Father know? Yesterday, she had said she would stay the night at Aisha's house after iftar. No one was supposed to know she had truly slept at the bimaristan.
Rummanah's breath caught. She nearly dropped the items she carried, the moment stretching as if time itself had paused. For a heartbeat, the morning felt suspended between expectation and dread.
Then, unexpectedly, Al-Hasan laughed—a deep, rolling sound that broke the tension like sunlight shattering mist.
"Hahaha… I was only joking."
Layla let out a soft sigh of relief, her shoulders slackening. "Hee… for a moment I thought my heart would betray me."
Al-Hasan waved a hand with casual authority. "Choose your place of study carefully. And take a guard with you."
Rabiah's voice, calm but sharp, broke the quiet, directed at Layla without looking up from her sewing. "You should already be in your husband's house, Layla. Because of you, I am always questioned by the neighbors."
Layla's fingers clenched the edge of her sleeve, knuckles whitening. "I understand, Mother. I never intended to trouble you." Her voice was soft, but beneath it lay a firm resolve, a fire that refused to be extinguished.
A hush fell over the room.
Then, unexpectedly, Al-Hasan's voice rose from behind his scroll, commanding and unyielding. "Let her go."
The household froze. Even Rummanah, seasoned and unshakable, felt the weight of his words press upon her. No one dared speak.
"If Layla seeks knowledge, and it draws her closer to Allah," he continued, voice firm and unwavering, "then I will not stand in her way. The world will not collapse simply because a woman steps outside her home."
Rabiah lowered her head, the thread trembling between her fingers. Her hands shook—not from fear, but from the force of love and concern she felt for her daughter's safety.
Layla bowed deeply, a mixture of gratitude and defiance shining in her eyes. "Jazakumullāh, Father."
She lifted her head, heart pounding with exhilaration and relief, and walked away, each step a quiet declaration of her independence.
As they moved off, Rummanah leaned closer, whispering in a voice tinged with both concern and curiosity, "A more open place—or a new restriction?"
Layla tilted her head, eyes glinting with determination. "A place where a woman may find a little protection…" She paused, letting the weight of her next words hang in the morning air. "…before she is ensnared by marriage."
Rummanah's gaze softened, a protective warmth radiating from her. "This servant only hopes the neighbors will stop talking about you to your mother, my lady."
Layla chuckled, a low, knowing sound, and shook her head. "Let them talk, Rummanah. I do not care. If I were to marry only out of fear of being called an old maid by the neighbors… who will be responsible if I am not happy in my marriage?"
Rummanah's breath caught. Her hands, steady for decades, trembled slightly. "Very well, my lady. May Allah protect you."
"Ameen," Layla whispered, a quiet promise carried on the wind as she strode forward, confident and unbowed.
Her eyes scanned the courtyard briefly, noting the familiar arrangement of olive trees and fountains. Even in these tranquil surroundings, Layla felt the pulse of Baghdad—the murmurs of scholars debating in nearby study halls, the call of merchants opening their shops, and the distant toll of the muezzin. Everything seemed alive, brimming with possibility, and yet every corner held whispers of expectation, tradition, and constraint.
Rummanah followed silently, adjusting the folds of Layla's dark scarf. "Shall I send word to the scribe of Yemen to meet us at the garden gate, my lady?"
Layla shook her head, lips curving with faint amusement. "No, let him wait. We shall meet him ourselves, so he sees that knowledge is not bound by waiting for permission."
Rummanah smiled, a gesture that spoke of both pride and worry. The weight of responsibility always seemed heavier in this house, yet they bore it with grace.
As Layla walked toward the gate, the morning sun climbed higher, casting long shadows that interlaced with the paths of the courtyard. She breathed in deeply, a mixture of anticipation, exhilaration, and a touch of fear filling her lungs. Today, she would step into the world outside her father's eyes, carrying nothing but her courage, her knowledge, and her faith.