Chapter 22 · Untitled Chapter

The elder did not have the chance to answer before the heavy cedar doors of the majlis parted once more. My uncle, Tariq, crossed the threshold without waiting for the house steward to announce him. He did not remove his gaze from Saud as he took three deliberate paces across the silk weave of the Persian carpet, stopping just short of the low perimeter where the brass tables stood.

In his right hand, Ammi Tariq carried an ivory cylinder bound with tarnished silver wire. He did not offer the customary salam, nor did he incline his head toward the host. His anger was not loud; in our families, true fury was always dry, thin as desert parchment, and bitter as unsweetened rind.

"You speak of sealed ledgers, Maha," my uncle said, his voice flat, addressing me without granting me his full attention. "You speak as though your grandfather left no word before your father signed your name into this house."

Saud did not stir from the Sadr. His back remained straight against the embroidered cushions, his crisp collar stark against the dark wool of the bisht draped across his shoulders.