Chapter 19 · Chapter 19

The silence settled again, thick with the drifting scent of Taif rose and the raw, mineral tang of cold brass. Outside, beyond the heavy oak and the deadbolt, the corridor remained muted, though the weight of the house gathered against the boundary like dry wind before a storm.

It was not an elder who came next, nor the cousins who had lingered in the lower hall trading speculations on what had transpired across the threshold. A discreet chime sounded at the inner intercom mounted beside the arched passage to the dressing quarters. Two brief tones, measured and deliberate.

Majed did not move from where he stood. His white thobe was immaculate, the linen falling straight without a fold out of place, his dark eyes resting on mine with the steady unhurried assurance that belonged to this room. He tilted his chin toward the desk—a vast slab of polished walnut set against the southern wall, bare of ornament except for a heavy leather blotter and a brass pen tray.

"The courier," Majed said quietly. His voice carried neither anger nor haste. "Ustadh Tariq Al-Husseini has arrived. He brought the formal summons himself.