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“The doctor is dead,” the messenger said, looking Yusha in the eye. “He died in a fire years ago. The man is just a beggar who got lucky with a needle. I’ll tell the governor we found the wandering monk. We’ll be gone by noon.”
Malik, Zainab’s father, watched the departure from the door of the small shed where he now lived. He saw the royal coat of arms. He saw the doctor’s hands. He approached the main house, his gait a pathetic jumble.