Chapter 19 · Chapter 19

The corridor leading away from the majlis toward the private wing smelled heavily of burning oud, the grey curls of smoke drifting lazily along the high cornices. I did not hurry. To quicken my pace would suggest anxiety, and there was nothing in the Al-Sulaim registry or my own conduct that warranted a lowered head.

Behind me, the muffled voices of the household faded into the stone walls; ahead, the deeper cadence of male voices echoed from the majlis.

Before I could reach the heavy door that led toward Marzouq’s private wing, a sharp footstep sounded against the polished cream marble.

"Lulwa."

It was my maternal uncle, Khal Salman. He stood at the entrance of the gallery, flanked by two elderly arbiters from the extended family alliance—men whose presence was summoned only when inheritances fractured or contracts required unyielding verification. Khal Salman wore a gold-trimmed cream bisht over his thobe, his hand gripping an amber masbaha whose beads clacked with rapid, calculated agitation.

"The matter is settled, Khal Salman," I said evenly, stopping three paces away.