No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 Read Online Free PDF Page B

course,” he said as he unscrewed the top of his ink pot. “Oh, and classical Greek and Latin, but one doesn’t really speak those.”
    Ali sighed. “I heard Arabic once, when the imam called prayers from the minaret in Dembre. How did you learn so many tongues?”
    “I grew up speaking two of them at home and the others I studied at school.” He rubbed a finger over his eyebrow. “Ali, must you chatter so much?”
    “Yes, for how else am I to learn anything? Which is the language you speak with Jojan?” she asked, giddy with the thought that there were so many languages on the earth and her master spoke them all.
    “French.” He opened his book and found the page where he’d left off the night before.
    “It is pretty,” she said. “Like music. Is it the language of your birth? Where is this place, French?”
    Andre sighed impatiently. “France. It’s called France, and it’s far away from here, in Europe.”
    “Where is Europe, Handray? Is it sit across the mountains?”
    “No, farther than that. Here, look.” He dipped his pen in the ink pot, tore a blank piece of paper from the back of his book, and quickly drew a rough sketch.
    “What is that?” Ali asked with fascination, watching over his shoulder.
    “This is a map of Europe and Asia Minor.” He pointed. “Here, this is Turkey, this is the mainland of Greece over here, the boot is Italy, and way up here is France. And this,” he said, adding an island on the top of the sheet, “is Great Britain, where I live when I’m not traveling.”
    Ali chewed on her lip. “There is much distance between your home and mine.”
    “Yes. Yes, there is,” he agreed, trying to find his place again.
    “Why did you come to this country, Handray?”
    “Because it interests me,” he said, not looking up. “I like to study very old things.”
    “Ah. Like the tombs cut into the cliffs that we stopped at today? You wrote down many things.”
    “Yes, like the cliff tombs and the old city below it.”
    “What is its name?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the table.
    Andre finally closed his book altogether and devoted his full attention to her. “It used to be called Pinara by the Lycians, a people who lived here long before we came along. And Xanthos, where we go next, has many more old things, built by the same people.”
    “Lycians,” she repeated, rolling the word around on her tongue. “Were they Turks?”
    “No, Ali. They were here long before the Turks came. They were—look,” he said abruptly. “If you promise to be a good servant and go away now so that I might work, I’ll tell you all about the Lycians another time.”
    “You will?” Ali said joyfully. “Oh, thank you, Handray—I love stories above everything. Except Allah, of course. And I do like to learn,” she thought to add. “Just think of all the things you can teach me.” She smiled winningly. “You like to teach, do you not?”
    “You are completely impossible,” he said, handing Ali the sheet of paper. “Here. You keep this.”
    “For me? To keep? Oh! Oh, Handray, thank you!” She clutched it to her chest.
    Andre smiled. “You’re very welcome. Now off with you and let me get to work.”
    He watched as Ali flew away with the makeshift map, holding it as if it were the most precious of possessions. He shook his head, thinking he’d never get any work done with the child around, constantly pestering him. But he made a mental note to spend some time teaching Ali at least to read and write. If nothing else, studying might keep Ali out of his hair.
    Andre turned his thoughts to pigeonhole tombs.
    Ali lay looking up at the stars that night, the map carefully folded and tucked inside her bundle along with her book, the one with the strange writing she couldn’t read that had belonged to her father. She sighed heavily. There was so much she wanted to learn. She knew so little about the world, about what was outside.
    She began to whisper Turkish words to herself the