“Good.” He smiled. “Now, come with me. We’re almost there.”
Rabbi Meyer’s building was a tenement like all the others, its hard facade stained with dirt and smoke. The lobby was dark and close, but well kept; the stairs creaked with protest beneath their feet. The Golem noticed that her companion’s breathing grew labored as they ascended.
The Rabbi’s rooms were on the fourth floor. A narrow entryway led to a cramped kitchen with a deep sink, a stove, and an icebox. Socks and underclothes hung above the sink, drying. More laundry sat in piles on the floor. Dirty dishes lay jumbled together on top of the stove.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” said the Rabbi, embarrassed.
The bedroom was large enough only for its bed and a wardrobe. Beyond the kitchen was a small parlor, with a deep, worn sofa of green velvet set beneath a large window. Next to it was a small wooden table, with two chairs. A large collection of books lined one side of the room, their spines cracked and faded. More books were stacked in haphazard piles about the room.
The Rabbi said, “I don’t have much, but it’s enough. Consider this your home, for the time being.”
The Golem stood in the middle of the parlor, not wishing to dirty his sofa with her dress. “Thank you,” she said.
And then, she caught sight of the window. The sky was darkening, and the gas lamps in the parlor were bright enough to create a reflection. She saw the image of a woman, superimposed against the neighboring building. One hand fluttered up slightly from her side, then lowered; the woman in the window did the same. She stepped closer, fascinated.
“Ah,” said the Rabbi quietly. “You haven’t seen yourself yet.”
She studied her own face, then ran a hand through her hair, felt the thin strands stiff with river water. She gave it an experimental tug. Would it grow, or remain forever the same length? She ran her tongue over her teeth, then held out her hands. Her nails were short and square. The nail on the left index finger had been set a bit off center. She wondered if anyone beside herself would ever notice.
The Rabbi watched her examine herself. “Your creator was quite gifted,” he said. But he couldn’t keep a hint of disapproval from his tone. She looked back down to her fingertips. Nails, teeth, hair: none of these features were made of clay.
“I hope,” she said, watching her own mouth move, “that no one was harmed in my making.”
The Rabbi smiled sadly. “So do I. But what’s done is done, and you are not to be blamed for your own creation, whatever the circumstances. Now, I must go find you some clean clothes. Stay here, please—I’ll be back shortly.”
Alone, she watched her reflection for a little while longer, thinking. What if the Rabbi had not come when he had? What would have happened? She’d been standing inside the angry crowd’s circle, feeling the world fall away, as though she were about to cross a threshold into—what? She didn’t know. But in that moment, she’d felt calm. Peaceful. As though all worries and decisions were about to be lifted from her shoulders. Remembering, she shivered with a fear she didn’t understand.
It was growing late, and most of the shops were closed; but the Rabbi knew that a few would still be open near the Bowery, willing to sell him a woman’s dressing gown and a few pairs of underclothes. He could barely afford the expense: besides his small pension from his former congregation, his only income came from teaching Hebrew to young boys studying to become bar mitzvot. But it must be done. Warily he crossed the raucous thoroughfare, avoiding the paths of drunken men, and the eyes of the women who stood beneath the Elevated, waiting for custom. On Mulberry he found a clothing store still open, and bought a woman’s shirtwaist and skirt, a dressing gown, slips and drawers, and stockings with garters. After a moment’s hesitation, he added a nightgown to the pile. She wouldn’t need it for sleeping, of course, but the selection of women’s things had overwhelmed him; and besides, she couldn’t simply wear a dressing gown with nothing on beneath it. The clerk frowned at his coat and fringe, but took his money quickly enough.
He carried the string-wrapped package back across the Bowery, thinking. It would be difficult, living with someone who sensed one’s desires. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall to chasing his own mind, trapped in the maddening game of don’t think about that. He’d have to be completely honest and unabashed, and hide nothing. It wouldn’t come easy. But any misplaced courtesy would do her a disservice. The larger world would not be so accommodating.
There would be consequences to his actions, to his sheltering of her: he had known this from the moment he’d recognized her nature and decided not to destroy her. Childless, retired, a widower for close to ten years, Rabbi Avram Meyer had planned for himself a quiet old age and an uneventful death. But the Almighty, it seemed, had planned otherwise.
In a nondescript tenement hallway, Boutros Arbeely opened a door and stepped back to allow his guest admittance. “Here it is. My palace. I know it’s not much, but you’re welcome to stay here until you find a place of your own.”
The Djinni gazed inside with alarm. Arbeely’s “palace” was a tiny, dim room barely large enough for a bed, a miniature armoire, and a half-moon table pushed up against a dingy sink. The wallpaper was pulling away from the wall in thick ripples. The floor, at least, was clean, though this was something of a novelty. In honor of his guest, Arbeely had kicked all his laundry into the armoire and leaned against the door until it shut.
Eyeing the room, the Djinni felt a claustrophobia so strong he could barely bring himself to enter. “Arbeely, this room isn’t fit for two inhabitants. It’s barely fit for one.”
They’d been acquainted for little more than a week, but already Arbeely had realized that if their arrangement was to work, he’d have to curb his irritation at the Djinni’s offhand slights. “What more do I need?” he said. “I spend all my time at the forge. When I’m here, I’m asleep.” Gesturing to the walls, he said, “We could string a sheet across, and bring in a cot. So you don’t have to sleep in the shop anymore.”
The Djinni looked at Arbeely as though he’d suggested something insulting. “But I don’t sleep in the shop.”
“Then where have you been sleeping?”
“Arbeely. I don’t sleep.”
Arbeely gaped; for he hadn’t realized. Every evening when he left the shop, the Djinni would still be there, learning to work the delicate tinplate. And each morning, on returning, he’d find the Djinni hard at work again. Arbeely kept a pallet in the back room, for the nights when he was too tired to drag himself to his bed; he’d simply assumed that the Djinni was using it. He said, “You don’t sleep? You mean, not at all?”
“No, and I’m glad of it. Sleep seems like an enormous waste of time.”
“I like sleeping,” Arbeely protested.
“Only because you tire.”
“And you don’t?”
“Not in the way you do.”
“If I didn’t sleep,” Arbeely mused, “I think I’d miss the dreams.” He frowned. “You do know what dreams are, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know what dreams are,” the Djinni said. “I can enter them.”
Arbeely paled. “You can?”
“It’s a rare ability. Only a few clans of the highest djinn possess it.” Again Arbeely noted that casual, matter-of-fact arrogance. “But I can only do so in my true form. So there’s no need to worry, your dreams are safe from me.”
“Well, even so, you’re more than welcome—”
Irritated, the Djinni cut him off. “Arbeely, I don’t want