Chapter 36 · Chapter 36

The quiet in the majlis stretched until the faint hiss of the central air seemed like a judgment. The elder men along the low banquettes kept their hands upon their walking sticks, their fingers motionless on polished horn and silver. Hatim did not lower his hand. The finjan remained steady in his grip, thin porcelain catching the overhead light, a shield and a line drawn across the room.

I gathered the edge of my black crepe abaya over my lap, feeling the cool silk of the lining against my wrist. My tarha sat straight, pinned firm at the crown. Every eye that had spent weeks looking past me—calculating my inheritance, measuring how quietly I could be dispatched to the diplomatic quarter or sent behind screens until the dispute grew cold—was forced to reckon with my posture.

"Ammi," I addressed the oldest of the branch, seated to the right of the Sadr, my voice even, low enough to demand their total stillness. "You laid three paths at my feet before the midnight hour. You offered me a driver to the airport, so the name of Al-Subait would not be tied to an unsettled claim.