Chapter 28 · Chapter 28

"Sit with me, Dalal," he said, his voice dropping to that low, measured cadence that allowed no argument.

He pulled out the high-backed chair at the dark wooden table set near the tall, shuttered windows of the private wing. The room remained completely sealed, buffered from the echoing corridors and the restless murmurs of the lower majlis. On the table lay the calfskin ledger, its edges worn smooth by decades, its spine embossed with the crest of the Al-Rashid archives.

I gathered the folds of my dark linen dress and took the seat. Without my abaya and tarha in the shelter of these locked chambers, the cool evening air felt sharp against my bare neck, fragrant with the lingering warmth of Taif rose and smoky dehn al-oud.

Majed did not circle to the far side. He drew the adjacent chair close, his pristine white thobe brushing against my skirts as he sat. Unclasping the tarnished brass latch of the folio, he opened the thick, aged parchment sheets between us.