Baghdad, 815 CE
Within the sacred walls of the Bayt al-Hikmah, a constant murmur of activity filled the vast hall. An elderly scholar dictated long passages from a foreign manuscript, his voice steady, while a young scribe hurriedly copied each word, sweat trickling down his temple. Nearby, three learned men gathered around an astrolabe, debating the movements of the heavens with fervent enthusiasm.
A broad smile curved Aisha's lips.
"This place feels calming," she said suddenly.
A young Islamic scholar rushed past them, his arms full of rolled manuscripts. He collided with a marble pillar, and the scrolls scattered across the floor.
"Oh!" Aisha and Layla exclaimed at the same time.
Their laughter rang out—clear and youthful—drawing curious glances from several scholars nearby. Aisha quickly crouched to help gather the fallen scrolls.
A moment later, a young man stepped forward. Though clearly still youthful, his presence carried authority. His robe was simple yet neat, and his face reflected a wisdom far beyond his years.
"Assalāmu'alaikum, daughter of Al-Fadl and niece of Al-Hasan. What brings you to the House of Knowledge?"
Aisha blinked, slightly startled. She had heard of him from her father—a prodigy from Kufah who had mastered logic at an astonishingly young age. This must be—
Abu Yusuf Ya'qub ibn Ishaq Al-Kindi.
"Wa'alaikumussalām," Aisha replied calmly. "I wished to visit this place and listen to the wisdom of those who seek knowledge."
She deliberately chose the word listen, not learn, to soften her intent.
Al-Kindi nodded slowly. "Curiosity is the beginning of wisdom. But knowledge cannot merely be heard—it must be contemplated to hold value."
Layla whispered, "See? Even this child is already giving lectures."
Aisha nearly laughed but held herself back. If a fourteen-year-old speaks like this, she thought, how remarkable must his teachers be?
"I wish to learn more," Aisha said politely. "If permitted, I would like to observe the scholars working here."
Al-Kindi offered a faint smile. "I can show you a few places, if you wish. But remember—the path of knowledge is long, and often heavier than it appears."
Aisha nodded solemnly, as though the words truly struck her heart. "I will remember that."
As Al-Kindi walked ahead, Aisha leaned toward Layla and whispered, "I feel like a philosopher now."
Layla rolled her eyes. "You look more like an actress."
Aisha giggled. "At least an educated one."
Layla fixed her with a sharp look. "Careful, Aisha. Karma is close—and we're the ones inviting it."
Aisha stiffened.
The Banks of the Tigris — Near Zuhr
The breeze from the Tigris brushed against Aisha's face as she stood silently, gazing at the wide, tranquil stretch of water.
"Is this a river… or a sea?" she murmured.
A moment of silence passed. A soft breath escaped her lips.
"Perhaps I understand now," she whispered, "why some are willing to drown themselves for knowledge. In this world, a woman's worth is not measured by the softness of her voice—but by how obedient she is to rules."
Still speaking, Aisha stepped too close to the river's edge.
Layla, standing beside her, quickly scolded, "Can you ever stay still? If you fall in, don't blame me—or fate."
A mischievous smile formed on Aisha's face. "Then let fate carry me as far as it wishes."
Layla merely stared at her, clearly confused. "Since when did you become like this?"
"Enough. Let's take the boat."
Zahra and Mariam exchanged glances before following behind. They had long since surrendered to the boundless energy of their young mistresses.
The journey home felt different. Whispering gazes followed them.
"The wazir's daughter wandering like a date seller…" muttered a middle-aged man.
Layla scoffed. Aisha kept smiling, though her thoughts churned.
"Let them stare," she said softly. "Perhaps they're simply not used to seeing noble girls like us."
Mariam approached hesitantly. "My lady, we should return soon."
Aisha closed the curtain of the carriage.
---
Late Afternoon — The Residence of Al-Fadl
Not long after she sat down, a servant rushed in.
"The Wazir summons you to the meeting chamber, my lady. There are guests."
Layla froze mid-bite, a date dangling from her fingers. "Important guests?"
"The inner court," Zahra whispered. "And they are not known for kindness."
The Meeting Chamber
Al-Fadl sat upright as bearded men spoke in measured tones. A qadhi of Baghdad led the discussion.
"…We have heard that your daughter roams the city—even its centers of knowledge. At sixteen, would it not be wiser to marry her soon, before scandal arises?"
Aisha paused at the doorway, listening.
"Enter, Aisha," her father commanded.
She sat gracefully. Al-Fadl cast her a brief glance—a warning only shared blood could understand. Aisha. Silence.
"A woman who wanders too freely," the qadhi continued, "invites trouble."
Aisha's brow lifted, her lips parting.
"Aisha," Al-Fadl's voice was low, restraining.
Yet Aisha still turned toward the qadhi. "Be at ease, sir. I have no intention of causing chaos. I merely wish to learn and to see the city of Baghdad," she said flatly. "Not to seek trouble, as you assume."
The room fell silent.
"A noblewoman should remain at home," another voice added. "Learn religion and household management."
"Ah?" Aisha interjected lightly. "Forgive me—I almost forgot."
She looked at each face before her. "Sixteen years," she said softly. "An age always spoken of as the age of marriage—yet never as an age when a woman is still allowed to learn."
The thought stilled her for a moment. Even she did not know when these questions had taken root in her mind.
The qadhi frowned uneasily. "This girl will bring disaster," someone muttered.
A faint smile touched Aisha's lips.
At last, Al-Fadl spoke, his voice calm but firm. "My daughter has violated no decorum. She does not go anywhere without my consent—everything she does is with my permission."
The qadhis departed, leaving behind a silence heavy with meaning.
---
Then, Two Days After the Reprimand from the Court Scholars
Two days after the reprimand from the court's Islamic scholars, Aisha sat on the window ledge, her back pressed against the cold stone. One by one, she tossed dates into the garden below—not to eat them. Each date struck the soil like a small act of defiance.
Anger clung to her fingers. Anger at Baghdad. Anger at the scholars who believed women were meant to sit quietly behind curtains, admired but unheard.
On the floor, Layla occupied herself with the loose embroidery on Aisha's sandals, picking at a single thread until it nearly snapped.
"Angry because they called you a troublemaker?" she asked, her tone light, almost teasing.
"I'm angry because they're afraid," Aisha muttered. "Afraid of women who move freely." Her eyes burned—not loud, not wild, but sharp.
Layla looked up, one brow lifting. "So," she said slowly, "what's your solution this time?"
Aisha turned at once, as if the thought had struck her mid-breath. "I want to leave the house, Layla. I want to walk the city without rules breathing down my neck."
Layla straightened. "Where? You were just reprimanded by the Qadhi."
"The market," Aisha said. She smiled—not sweetly, but recklessly. "Without Father's permission."
Layla froze. "You are the vizier's daughter."
"Exactly," Aisha replied. "That's why I want to know what it feels like to walk without a name. No titles. No greetings that weigh and measure. Just… a woman."
Layla swallowed, then exhaled. "You truly intend to disguise yourself?"
"We will disguise ourselves," Aisha corrected, her voice firm. "Slip into the market. Observe. Remember. Learn." She paused, then added lightly, "Like palace spies."
Layla rolled her eyes, though worry crept into her voice. "May the Messenger of God not look down from the heavens and remove you from Paradise before you finish that sentence."
Aisha laughed under her breath. "You exaggerate."
That Morning — The Old Market
Chickens clucked. Cart wheels groaned. Merchants shouted over one another until the sounds blended into a restless roar.
Near the rear gate of the vizier's residence, two women in coarse robes slipped into the moving crowd. Their veils were pulled low, their steps uncertain—too careful, too stiff. They did not belong here.
"This robe itches like it's full of ants," Layla whispered, scratching at her neck.
"Be grateful it isn't straw," Aisha replied. "That was my first idea."
They stopped at a perfume stall, pretending to examine small glass bottles while quietly surveying their surroundings.
From an alley across the way, a sharp voice rang out. "Hey! You! That isn't yours!"
Heads turned.
An elderly merchant pointed accusingly at a young man seated beside a stack of worn books. The man did not rise. He did not flinch.
"I am only reading," he replied calmly. "Not stealing."
His tone was measured—controlled in a way that felt out of place among shouting vendors and haggling buyers.