Chapter 13 · Chapter 13

The gray light reached the sill before the city stirred across the high walls. It did not spill into the room; it only washed the sharp edges of the plaster until the pale stones turned the color of dry salt.

Marzouq did not ask me if I had slept. He had not slept either. His thobe was still crisp across the shoulders, though he had left the top collar button open through the middle hours. He stood up from the low table without haste, picked up his amber beads from the carved cedar chest, and walked to the double doors of the private wing.

The brass bolt was heavy, set into iron sleeves that had been oiled against the Riyadh dust. When he drew it back, the sound was dry and single—a clean latch falling away. He did not pull the doors wide. He pushed one leaf open two inches, enough to let in the dawn draft that smelled of damp sandstone, limestone dust, and cold pavement from the central courtyard.

"The side gate is unlocked until seven," he said, his back to me. His voice had the flat, quiet gravity of a man reciting an inventory.