Chapter 17 · Chapter 17

The heavy cedar door of the women's sitting room shut behind me, muting the distant, hollow resonance of the men’s court. Here, in the inner quarters of the estate, the air was dense with the warm smoke of cambodi oud rising from a pierced silver mabkhara on the low console.

The silk carpets cushioned every step, yet the quiet held no comfort; it carried the sharp, watchful chill of women who weighed every breath against the family register.

My paternal aunt sat upright upon the central divan, her black abaya falling in severe, pleated lines around her knees. Her shaila was pinned immaculately at her throat with a single bar of dull gold. Beside her sat an older woman dressed in embroidered crepe, a heavy leather portfolio balanced across her lap—Umm Bandar, the city’s most formidable matchmaker, whose ledger had joined three generations of Najdi wealth.

"Sit, Lulwa," my aunt said, her voice dry, level, and entirely devoid of warmth. She did not gesture toward the dallah on the brass side table.