Chapter 26 · Chapter 26

Midday brought no softening of the light over Riyadh. It fell harsh and brilliant through the high, arched windows of the grand majlis, cutting across the woven wool of the carpets and glinting against the polished silver dallah standing upon the brass brazier.

The men of the extended house had gathered for the noon assembly. Though I sat apart, draped in the heavy black crepe of my abaya with my tarha pinned securely at my throat, my presence was an immovable weight in the hall.

They had expected me to retreat to the inner chambers, to hide beneath the suspicion that had circulated through the lineage like dust on the wind. I remained where I was, my spine straight against the embroidered cushions, my hands still in my lap.

At the far side of the room, seated upon the raised divan near the sadr, was Uncle Mansoor. He was the eldest of the Buqami line present, his grey beard carefully trimmed, an ancient strand of amber misbaha turning rhythmically between his liver-spotted fingers.