The Language of Secrets by Ausma Zehanat Khan

don’t dress to impress any man,” Grace said. “Neither do you, right?”
    A sarcastic comment on the baggy pants and baggier tunic Rachel had hoped would resemble mosque-attending attire. But she hadn’t dressed that differently than she usually did, despite the athletic figure beneath the ill-fitting clothes. For reasons different from Grace’s, Rachel hadn’t made much effort with her appearance. The condo was her first step in a new direction. Maybe later she’d have time to think of herself as a woman, and not just a police officer.
    Grace pushed past her, giving Rachel a clear view of the back of her jersey.
    The words “ANGRY FEMINIST” were stamped on the black shirt, this time in white letters that appeared to bleed down her back.
    â€œHurry up,” she threw over her shoulder. “They serve refreshments down in the kitchen. If you’re lucky, you might get to meet Hassan on your first day.”
    Somewhat friendly overtures from a girl who didn’t appear friendly at all.
    Rachel followed at a slower pace, wondering what had become of Paula.
    In the main salon, twenty or so men were milling about chatting, while a handful of older women were busy setting up snacks in the small, updated kitchen. Paula was at the sink, filling a kettle with water.
    She glared at Rachel’s bare head.
    â€œYou’re meant to keep that on in the mosque at all times,” she said, just as Grace muttered under her breath, “Ignore her.”
    Halfheartedly, Rachel pulled the Maple Leafs scarf back up. Grace moved to the stove, stirring a small saucepan that contained a vivid, aromatic mixture spiced with cinnamon and cardamom seeds. When the liquid had thickened, she poured it into a crystal tea glass rimmed with gold and placed it in a saucer. Her eyes scanned the group of men in the prayer hall.
    Paula wasn’t done. The kettle dispensed with, she turned her full attention to Rachel.
    â€œIf you’re really here to learn about Islam, Gracie isn’t the best example to follow.” Her blue eyes made a scorching assessment of the younger girl’s appearance that Grace Kaspernak ignored. Maybe because she was used to it.
    Paula’s indictment didn’t bother Rachel. What was worrisome was her use of the phrase If you’re really here to learn about Islam. Why had she said such a thing? Had Rachel’s behavior aroused her suspicions already?
    Another voice spoke from behind Rachel’s head.
    â€œMy dear sister Paula, if anyone knows how to make newcomers welcome at Nur, surely it has to be you.”
    The voice was beautiful. It carried the faintest trace of an Arabic accent.
    Paula was suddenly beaming, her face seized by a joy so rapturous that she became almost pretty. Her blue eyes shone. For a moment she couldn’t speak.
    Rachel turned around to meet the owner of the voice.
    He was shaking hands with everyone who crossed his path. Even Grace paused to give him a grimace of a greeting. The man’s own smile was generous in turn. He touched the crystal tea glass, then lightly tapped Grace’s nose.
    â€œIt smells divine.” He winked at Grace as he said it. “I can’t believe Dinaase hasn’t come running to you.”
    Paula’s smile began to fade.
    â€œHave it, if you want.” The words were ungrudging, but the man took a step to the side, as Dinaase Abdi approached.
    â€œTake the qahwe you make with your own hands for Dinaase? I’m not such a terrible interloper as that. Din, come on. It’s hot and ready.” He made the name sound like “Dean.” And then he focused on Rachel.
    â€œAssalam u alaikum, sister,” he said. “Welcome to Masjid un-Nur.”
    *   *   *
    He was the handsomest man Rachel had ever seen, possessed of every known physical grace. A lean and supple physique. Slim, elegant hands. Midnight-dark eyes tilted in a symmetrical face, the