Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 19: Transformation
Tunis 1602
Morning light spills into the women’s courtyard, carrying the scent of citrus blossoms and freshly baked bread. The household stirs with quiet purpose as it does every day. The servants are busy sweeping and washing, preparing for the day ahead.
Now into her fourth year of captivity, Madeleine still moves through the house like a ghost. Silent and careful. Her eyes lowered. She’s never allowed to forget that she’s a slave working alongside free servants. Most of the women treat her as one of their peers, but a few like Aisha and Zaynab never pass up the opportunity to remind Madeleine of her lowly status, even though they are slaves themselves. Madeleine has come to accept her current life. Her hands no longer tremble as she folds linens or carries water jars. She works hard, since any perceived laziness is punished. Fortunately such occasions are rare, and she has never been whipped.
She is always respectful and gentle, despite the many provocations. Her patience and forbearance is a result of her relationship with the Maristela Bracelet and me. Madeleine rarely makes ambitious wishes, so the drain on her well of magic is minimal. I wish there was some means of granting her desire to return to France as a free woman, but there are limits to the power of the bracelet, and such a task is too much. The bracelet and I can free her from the kasbah, but she would then be trapped in a city where she could easily be kidnapped and enslaved once again.
Madeleine may prefer to remain unnoticed, like a ghost, but Lalla Amina is observant. Amina stands in the courtyard doorway and watches Madeleine for a long moment; not with suspicion, but with a thoughtful, assessing gaze.
“Bring her,” she says to one of her personal attendants.
Madeleine stiffens when the attendant approaches her, touching her arm lightly. She’s one of the women who delights in rubbing Madeleine’s slave status in her face.
“Lalla Amina summons you,” she gloats, hoping Madeleine is about to be whipped for slovenliness.
Madeleine’s breath catches. She looks terrified, unsure what unwitting misdemeanour she has been guilty of committing. She follows the attendant with hesitant steps, clutching the bracelet unconsciously. I feel her concern through the bracelet and I stay alert.
Amina’s apartments are in the family wing, which forms the front section of the women’s quarters, adjacent to the nursery. Her rooms are elegant, filled with soft fabrics and the faint scent of rosewater. However, we don’t linger in her rooms and we move across to the nursery. To one side of the room lies a cradle made of intricately carved wood, draped with embroidered cloth, and being gently rocked by a nine year old girl. I recognise the girl as Rania, Zaynab’s child, making her the daughter of the Bey. She’s the oldest of the seven children who are residents of the nursery. Teenage children live in the designated adult quarters for their gender and status. In the complex family hierarchy, Rania is a free person, but since her mother is a slave, she’s not entitled to a noble title. Only offspring from legal marriages inherit noble titles.
Inside the cradle sleeps a five-week old girl. Lalla Yasmin. Amina’s granddaughter, and the daughter of Khalid and his wife, who tragically died in childbirth. Lalla Amina gestures for Madeleine to come closer. Madeleine obeys, trembling.
“She cries when others hold her,” Amina says. “But she quiets when you pass.”
Madeleine blinks, startled. She hadn’t noticed. But Amina had.
“You are gentle,” Amina continues. “And the child needs gentleness. You are to be her nursemaid.”
Madeleine’s hands tighten around her veil. “I ... I don’t...” She struggles for the right Arabic words, her French accent thickening. “I don’t know how.”
Amina’s expression softens.
“You will learn.”
She lifts Yasmin from the cradle and holds her out. Madeleine freezes and her breath catches. Her hands hover in the air, trembling violently. She is terrified; not of the child, but of harming her. Terrified of failing. Terrified of no longer being invisible.
I whisper softly through the bracelet, my voice brushing her thoughts like a breeze. You can do this. Madeleine swallows hard. And she reaches out.
Her arms are stiff at first, awkward, uncertain. But Yasmin settles against her chest with a soft sigh, tiny fingers curling into Madeleine’s veil. Madeleine gasps with a small, broken sound of disbelief. Amina watches closely.
“She likes you,” she says.
Madeleine’s eyes fill with tears. Not from fear, but something gentler. Something she hasn’t felt since her capture.
Her first days with Yasmin are difficult. Madeleine is terrified of every cry, every squirm, every tiny cough. She holds Yasmin too carefully, afraid to move. She panics when the child fusses, her breath quickening and hands shaking.
But I am there. I only appear in my corporeal form as a Berber servant girl her age when she is alone. Often we are in the nursery, in the quiet hours of dawn or in the moments when Yasmin’s cries overwhelm her.
I teach her the lessons the bracelet teaches me; how to rock the cradle with a steady rhythm; how to hum soft Andalusi lullabies; how to soothe a child with gentle pats; how to wrap Yasmin in warm cloth on cold nights; how to hold her close without fear. Madeleine listens with desperate focus and learns.
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