Chapter 34 · Chapter 34

The solid brass turned beneath his palm, the lock engaging with a muffled, heavy click that secured the door of the private wing behind us. The inner room was sealed, its secret kept entirely intact and unmarred by the speculation of the corridors.

I stepped forward into the gallery, maintaining the measured pace befitting an Al-Anazi, every fold of my black abaya falling into immaculate order. Majed walked beside me, his bearing an impenetrable barrier against the quiet house.

Between the two of us, across the wide stone hall, there was neither touch nor leaning; the public gravity of a Riyadh household admitted no such familiarity. He did not take my elbow, nor did his hand brush my sleeve. Yet the deliberate, even tempo of his stride set an perimeter that no one in the family would venture to cross.

The polished stone underfoot led toward the crimson carpet of the outer gallery. Ahead, the low murmur of voices from the majlis drifted into the passage, carrying the dry warmth of burning oud and the sharp, bitter scent of cardamom gahwa.