Chapter 24 · Chapter 24

The silence that settled over the majlis was not peace; it was the suffocating stillness that preceded a storm across the Najd plateau. The smoke from the silver mabkhara drifted between the pillars, carrying the heavy scent of aged oud over the lowered heads of the kinsmen.

Then my uncle, Ammi Saud, shifted his posture on the perimeter cushions. He adjusted the heavy gold thread of his bisht over one shoulder, his silver-streaked beard catching the amber glow of the chandeliers, and let his amber misbaha fall still in his palm.

"You hold a paper, Nayef," Ammi Saud said, his voice flat, dry as winter salt. He did not yell. In a Riyadh hall of this standing, volume was weakness. "A private deed witnessed in an inner room does not supersede the rights of the living agnates under public record. You shelter my brother’s daughter under the pretext of an old understanding between two men who are now dust."

I remained seated in the alcove, the black fabric of my abaya draped strictly to the floor, my hands folded beneath the silk of my sleeves. The tarha framed my face, shadowing every flicker of expression.