Chapter 15 · Chapter 15

The steward came from the service end of the corridor without being called. He had been standing there a while, past the last wall sconce, where the passage turns into shadow—because this house never sends a man to a lock until it has already settled what the lock is meant to seal.

He was old, keeping his gaze measured against the stone between us, which was an answer of its own kind.

He passed me without a word, set both hands against the cedar, and drew it shut. It did not slam. It settled into the jamb the way heavy timber settles when the frame was planed for it two generations ago and has forgotten neither weight nor purpose.

Then he lifted the long brass key from the peg beside the architrave. Bright at the bow where decades of palms had pressed it, he fitted it to the exterior plate, and the bolt slid home with the quiet, final thud of an ended argument.

"Ya'teek al-afiyah," Hatim said behind me.

The steward gave no reply.