Chapter 21 · Chapter 21

The shadow under the carved limestone archway was cooler than the morning light spilling into the main gallery, and it was there that Ammah Hessa intercepted me.

She moved without haste, the heavy black crepe of her abaya rustling faintly against the polished travertine floor. At sixty, her posture was as unyielding as the stone pillars of the courtyard. She did not raise her voice; in an Al-Rumaih household, volume was an admission of weakness, and she possessed none.

"Danah," she said softly, stepping directly into my path so that to pass her, I would have had to brush the hem of her sleeve—a breach of respect neither of us would permit.

I stopped three paces short, keeping my hands folded beneath the fall of my tarha. "Ammah."

From the deep pocket of her abaya, her hand emerged, dark-veined and ringed with old Najdi gold that carried no modern shine. Between her thumb and forefinger hung an ornate, heavy brass key, suspended from a dark silk tassel.

"The annex past the inner courtyard has its own high gate," she said, her voice dry, steady, carrying the measured cadence of someone distributing customary medicine to the afflicted.