Chapter 23 · Untitled Chapter

Ammi Tariq did not drink the gahwa. He gave the room a hollow incline of his head and retreated past the threshold, the heavy cedar doors closing behind his shadow with the dull finality of an account closed in ledger books.

Yet the foyer did not empty.

Before the scent of the cardamom could settle in the air, the double doors parted once more. It was not another uncle who entered, but an older man wrapped in a dark brown bisht with dull gold threading—Abu Nawaf, a longstanding agent who had carried the private messages and formal petitions of the Al-Otaibi women’s quarters since the days of my grandfather.

Behind him, two attendants carried a cedar chest bound in brass and lined with crimson velvet. They placed it upon the low marble table near the center of the majlis, stepping back with lowered chins.

Saud did not rise from his seat. His fingers rested lightly against the arm of his chair, the crisp white linen of his thobe immaculate under the chandelier. He merely watched the box, his expression an unreadable mask of cold patience.

"Sayyidati Maha," Abu Nawaf said, bowing his head respectfully toward me before turning to Saud.