Whither Zenobia?
1. The antique brass pen holder winked under the cone of lamplight among the ungraded homework papers, pulling Constance’s gaze to the leafy designs etched onto its phallic shaft. Almost reluctantly, she let her fingertip push up the scallop-shaped cap, then peered into the empty inkwell. Memories lurked there. She remembered bargaining for the pen holder in the tiny shop deep within Damascus’s great souk — and Roberta grasping her wrist as they left the store. “Connie, over there — look!” Three women shrouded in tent-like chadors hovered like black...
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