Chapter 20 · Chapter 20

I did not take another second to study his face. Reaching out, I placed the smooth leather travel folio against the stiff linen of my uncle's thobe, leaving it pressed against his chest until his fingers involuntarily closed around it to prevent it from dropping to the polished stone.

I stepped past him, my abaya brushing the limestone pilasters of the morning gallery.

Behind me, Ammi Tariq remained stationary, the paper tickets rustling faintly under his tightened grip. He did not call after me; one does not raise one’s voice in the high corridors of this house when the staff are already carrying brass carafes through the lower arches.

The morning light of Riyadh cut clean and hard through the slatted screens overhead, laying sharp geometric bars across the pale marble. The air was cool, carrying the faint residue of overnight air-conditioning mixed with the distant, dry warmth that would soon claim the courtyard outside. From the direction of the formal majlis, the muted, rhythmic click of worry beads echoed—