Chapter 12 · Untitled Chapter

The majlis did not empty when he stood. I marked that before I marked anything else, and it told me more than the whole evening had: a room that stays full means to watch.

My uncle had not moved off his cushion. Both hands flat on his knees, the way a man sits when he has said his last sentence and is waiting for the room to agree with him.

"Say it in front of your father's people," he said. "Say the word, and this is finished tonight."

"I gave my answer in the cup," I said.

"A cup is not a word."

"A cup is what a house hands a guest," I said. "If the house wanted a word, it should have asked at the door, not at the end of the evening."

One of the older men by the shut casements made a low sound and did not repeat it.

They had offered me the cushion at the sadr twice since the gahwa went round the second time. Three steps from my uncle's hand. Facing the doors.