Chapter 14 · Chapter 14

The quiet settled between us for barely the length of a single breath before the iron knocker crashed against the heavy cedar of the outer door.

Three strikes, sharp and rhythmic, vibrating straight through the bronze plates and the stone lintel above. It was not the gentle tap of a servant bringing evening water. It was the summons of an elder accustomed to having interior gates swing open before his shadow even crossed the threshold.

"Lulwa!"

My uncle’s voice cut through the carved timber, muffled by the thickness of the wood yet sharp with indignation. "Open this door. Your cousin has brought the car to the inner courtyard. You will return to your father’s house before the majlis finishes its second pot."

My breath hitched in my throat. Instantly, out of reflex, my fingers rose to pull my tarha tighter across my hair, gathering the black folds of my abaya close around my shoulders. In the presence of family men who were not yet forbidden to see my face, the armor of modesty was instinct.

Marzouq did not jump. He did not even spill a drop from the dallah as he set it back onto the copper tray.