Chapter 41 · Chapter 41

The courtyard remained still beneath the midday glare, pale and unyielding against the whitewashed stones that had sheltered Abu Jaafar’s lineage through siege and surrender. Behind me, the dull click of an iron latch signaled the closing of the final cedar chest.

Maryama drew the heavy linen cloth over the brass pots, her movements neither hurried nor trembling. In this household, departure was not mourned with open lamentation; it was met with the austere composure of people who knew their honor could not be confiscated by a clerk’s decree.

Ali stepped into the open court from the lower passage, his sleeves rolled back and his brow lined with dust from the storerooms. He did not glance toward the gate or the street beyond, where the horses of the guard still clopped down the steep cobbles of the Albaicín.

His stride was slow and steady, carrying the calm authority that comes when all uncertainty is stripped away. He paused before the carved plaster niche set into the thick lintel of the main hall, reached into the hollow, and unhooked the heavy iron key of the estate.

The metal gave a dry, ringing rasp against the mortar as he lifted it free.