Chapter 11 · Chapter 11

Before my hem could cross the sill into the long runner of the private corridor, his hand touched the carved cedar jamb above my head. It was not a grasp. He did not touch my shoulder or reach for the edge of my Abaya. It was merely a boundary of cedar and shadow, still holding me within the cool breath of the room.

"The majlis speaks of what it invents, Dalal," Majed said. His voice was level, carry-weight low, bearing that quiet stillness of men whose word does not require an echo. "You saw the ledger on the cedar table. You know what is written against your house. But you have not seen the deed itself."

He did not bar the exit. If I stepped forward, his arm would drop without resistance; that was the oath implicit between us, the boundary of honor that had kept my dignity intact even behind a bolted latch. Yet the gray light filtering through the high wooden slats caught the far recess near the archway, where an iron chest sat heavy against the limestone foundation.