Miria listened to this old jinni’s plea, her heart torn between compassion and doubt. Her countenance froze, as though rigid stoicism would somehow shield her from making one decision or another. 

A part of her wished she had never offered Curdle that small tapestry for the urn, even if this was a dream and nothing physical was real. The emotions were more tangible than anything she could touch, see, and hear right now, like the life force of all movement and color in this subconscious world. Emotions controlled Miria’s stiff hesitation and this jinni’s calm desperation, and he had admitted that it was her kindness that made him choose her for this task of…

…Of taking the ashes of someone she had never known and probably never would have met if this person was alive to a very distant city that harbored at least a little animosity towards jinn customs. She wished she had been cruel enough to dump this Lady Fiira’s ashes the first chance she got, like any sane human woman would have done, and then she would be facing only her normal worries. She’d have her usual dreamless sleep or a nightmare-wrought attempt at rest as Tamal ever haunted every unconscious thought…

Tamal. Thinking of him now did not pit her among the apparitions of her past as it usually did. The scene did not shift in response to her thoughts, the market and her booth as steadfast as Curdle’s feelings towards his master even after her death. Miria looked at Curdle now, this haggard, worn creature, his physical presence imprisoned back in Renna and his consciousness chained to her thoughts. Whatever guilt, hatred, and regret she harbored towards the jinn in general, Curdle somehow kept it at bay. His presence had shattered the normal course of her dreaming, and now she was questioning his motives in a rather dull market place instead of reliving her blood-soaked regrets yet again.

Perhaps it was fate that somehow brought Curdle and Miria together? But Miria no longer believed in fate, or at the very least it frightened her. Still, she couldn’t ignore that with how cumbersome this Curdle could be, he at least had one use.

And she knew she could never turn this jinni away, not with a plea like that. Perhaps she should resent that Tamal hadn’t hurt her enough, as absurd a notion as that was. Or perhaps the years had softened her countenance too much.

“Sherahd is bound to be part of this caravan’s route,” Miria said, her tone clipped and frigid, “as it is a major trade hub. I will keep your master’s ashes for the time being, mainly because I don’t see it worth it breaking from the caravan to dump her over some sand dune. Knowing how the world works, a breeze will blow the ashes against me anyway, and that thought is too disgusting to bear. But I can’t make any promises once we reach Sherahd.”

Carefully, Miria stood, dusting off her clean, spotless clothes. “And you can stay in my head if you wish,” she said with a haughty sniff, looking quickly away from Curdle, “if your presence still allows me a good night’s sleep. Don’t expect me to engage you in any way, though. And I hope you gone when I wake.”