Chapter 13 · Untitled Chapter

The wing was cooler than the hall, and quieter by a wall's thickness. The bakhoor had been set on its brass feet near the shelf and the smoke went up in one thin line; under it the room smelled of oud that had been in the wood a long time, not poured over it that evening.

I put my hand flat on the door and listened. A chair went back. Somebody said a name twice — quietly, the way you say it to a man you do not want overheard correcting. Then the gate, through two walls: that low settle it makes when it does not open.

He set the tray down himself. The housekeeper had left it on the low table before she pulled the latch — dallah, two finjan, the mabkhara — and he poured without asking, high, until each cup was less than half, and held one out to me on his right hand.

I took it. Cardamom first, then the bitter under it.

"Drink," he said. "Then we can stop explaining."

I drank.