Chapter 7 · Chapter 7

The majlis did not empty at once. It thinned, the way smoke thins: first the men on the far benches, then the ones near the archway, each of them setting his finjan down on the brass tray and finding a reason to be somewhere with more air in it. Three days of guessing, and not one of them had guessed anything. They carried their theories out with them like plates they had been told not to drop.

Only the bakhoor kept its post. It had burned down to a grey knot, and the oud in it had gone from sweetness to something drier, closer to wood than to perfume.

"Dalal." My uncle spoke from the archway, where the majlis ended and the corridor began. He did not come in; he had not once come in. "The car is at the side gate. It is late."

"I know what time it is, Ammi."

Majed had not moved from the sadr.