Chapter 23 · Chapter 23

The silence in the northern wing did not dissolve; it merely gathered weight as we moved toward the main majlis. I walked half a pace behind Saad, my black abaya whispering faintly against the marble, the edge of my tarha pinned securely beneath my chin.

The scent of warm oud hung heavy in the central corridor, drifted in from the polished brass censers that flanked the broad arched entry. Before us, the household had gathered, summoned not by raised voices, but by the quiet certainty of Saad’s presence.

At the far end of the long chamber, seated along the low perimeter divans, sat the elder kin and the branch directors of the commercial board. Among them, sitting stiffly with his fingers resting upon the curved silver handle of his cane, sat my uncle Ammi, his expression veiled beneath the fold of his ghutra.

Farther along, leaning forward with the eager tension of a man expecting a public reckoning in his favor, was his cousin, Nayef Al-Buqami. Nayef wore his formal bisht draped over his white thobe, clearly convinced that the morning’s whispers had broken Saad’s composure and fractured our standing.

Saad did not hurry his stride.