Chapter 10 · Chapter 10

The card does not stop being face up.

The majlis keeps talking, only quieter, and the talk is about nothing, and every man in the room is listening to the nothing. Somebody down the row laughs at a joke that was not made. The Mabkhara comes around and hands lift to draw the smoke against the chest, and the scent of Oud rises, thick and dry, and nobody looks down at the brass tray.

I keep my hands in my lap beneath the folds of the black Abaya, where no one can see them and where they are of no use to anybody.

Marzouq Al-Falih sets his Finjan down.

Not hard. That is the sound the room has been braced for since the card was turned, and it does not come. There is only the small, flat click of silver on brass, and after it the room is done with talking.

He stands.

He does not straighten his Thobe and he does not look along the row to see who is watching him.