Chapter 27 · Chapter 27

The attendant moved without a sound. He lifted the silver tray and the dullah, his gaze lowered toward the wool border of the carpet, and withdrew through the arched portal, letting the latch meet the frame in a muted click. In the wake of his leaving, the majlis smelled only of dying embers and the heavy, bitter resin of aged oud clinging to the draperies.

Uncle Mansoor did not rise. To rise immediately would have been an admission of dismissal beneath the gaze of the men seated along the perimeter of the divan. Instead, he slipped his string of polished amber beads into the deep pocket of his bisht, smoothed the stiff gold trim over his knees, and let his breathing level into a thin, measured hiss.

The silence in the long room sat unyielding, heavy with lineage and the unsaid whispers that had trailed me through the gates of Riyadh.

I did not look at Mansoor.