Chapter 38 · Chapter 38

I crossed the threshold into the inner gallery, the hem of my black silk abaya brushing against the cool limestone tiles. The cedar door eased shut behind Nayef with a muted, solid thud, cutting off the vast echo of the courtyard and leaving only the rhythmic, quiet hum of the estate's private quarters.

In the quiet sadr of the private wing, where low divans lined the walls beneath arched alcoves of warm sandstone, an antique mahogany table stood prepared. Upon it rested the leather-bound register—both the commercial division and the personal covenant bound under one seal.

Beside it, an attendant had placed a silver tray with a dallah and two small finjans, faint wisps of steam curling upward with the fragrance of crushed cardamom and cloves.

Nayef walked to the head of the low table, his white thobe crisp against the dark wood. He did not rush to take his seat, nor did he gesture toward mine with anything resembling command. Instead, he simply inclined his head, stepping aside so that the central chair remained open to me. His presence carried that unyielding, quiet heba—