Chapter 16 · Chapter 16

The silence in the majlis was not an absence of sound, but the heavy, suspended weight of Marzouq’s absolute presence. The smoke from the mabkhara curled upward between us, thin and pale blue against the polished stone, carrying the dry, resinous cut of aged oud.

Saud did not sit back, but his posture had begun to fray at the shoulders, his fingers twitching against the hem of his crisp white thobe where his wrath had failed to find purchase.

"An explanation is convenient, Abu Tariq," Saud muttered, his voice dropping into a dry rasp as he addressed my uncle, unwilling to look directly at Marzouq.

"Yet convenient explanations do not explain why a private scrap rests folded in the base of a woman’s bag without a name affixed. A broker’s ledger must carry an account holder. A number on plain parchment belongs to whoever paid for the line, or whoever holds the counterpart. If it is merely commerce, why the omission?"

My uncle tightened his fingers over Saud’s forearm, an unspoken demand for restraint, but Saud’s eyes remained fixed on the small, folded slip that still lay on the low brass table.