Chapter 25 · Chapter 25

The heavy cedar door of the private wing did not swing wide. Majed drew the brass bolt back with a single, deliberate turn, checking the timber at an angle just broad enough to frame the corridor and the formal threshold dividing his quarters from the gallery beyond.

I stepped up behind his right shoulder, remaining squarely within the cedar-scented quiet of the inner room. I had drawn the black silk of my tarha over my hair and folded the abaya closely across my chest, observing the unyielding decorum this house demanded. I had no intention of setting a single foot across that brass-inlaid line. The authority here lay in commanding the threshold, not in answering the summons of the hall.

On the other side stood the visiting clerk, an upright man in a crisp white thobe and a stiffly starched ghutra, carrying the embossed leather folio of the notary bureau. Beside him waited one of the house stewards, silent and deferential, his eyes fixed on the limestone tiles.

“Ya ustadh,” the clerk said, dipping his head in a measured bow as Majed appeared. His glance flicked momentarily past Majed’s shoulder toward me, taking in the stillness of my posture.