Chapter 18 · Chapter 18

The silence stretched across the low carpet, thick with the smoky bite of burning oud and the sharp tang of cardamom rising from the silver dallah. Between us, upon the mother-of-pearl inlay of the small side table, rested the white porcelain finjan poured for me. A pale ring of steam circled above its rim.

My aunt watched me, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of her embroidered abaya, waiting for me to lift it. In the majlis of Al-Sulaim, drinking meant accepting the air between us was clear—that negotiations remained open, that blood still governed the terms of my standing.

I did not lift it to my lips. With two fingers, I pushed the finjan half an inch across the polished wood, setting it aside untouched.

Umm Bandar drew a slow breath, the silk of her shaila rustling against her shoulder. She knew what the gesture meant. Every woman raised in Riyadh knew. An untasted cup left upon the table was a wall erected without a word raised.

"You neglect your manners, Lulwa," Ammah said, her voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register of an elder whose authority has been measured and found lacking.