Chapter 30 · Untitled Chapter

The heavy cedar doors of the majlis swung open before Tariq could reach the latch from the corridor. My uncle walked in, unannounced by the steward, the hem of his dark woolen bisht trailing with the brisk momentum of a man who believed bloodline excused intrusion. His face was gray beneath the trim of his ghutra, drawn tight by three days of idling cars outside the northern wall.

In his right hand, he carried neither finjan nor greeting, but the stiff cream envelope stamped with the notary’s seal. Behind him, the draft from the courtyard carried the faint scent of dust and exhaust from the engines idling at the gate.

"Noura," Ammi said, his voice stripped of the customary courtesies of the morning. He did not look toward Bandar, who remained seated at the center of the low divan, still as stone, his white thobe immaculate against the deep crimson wool of the cushions. "Look at the street. The elders from the branch line have been sitting in their cars since dawn. The gatekeeper tells them the latch is barred by order of this house.