Chapter 23 · Chapter 23

By the second pouring of the cardamom gahwa, the quiet of the majlis broke under the weight of an arrival that had not been announced. Bandar Al-Falih stepped past the perimeter attendants without surrendering his cane, his crisp white thobe rustling against the low carpets as he bypassed the outer perimeter entirely.

He did not glance toward the seated elders or wait for the host to extend a finjan. His gaze cut straight to the low table where my black leather bag had rested hours earlier, before lifting to Marzouq, who sat motionless at the sadr.

I remained seated two paces behind the partition arch, the dark silk of my abaya gathered smoothly over my knees, my tarha pinned firm and level. In the presence of men carrying old northern grievances, my silence was not deference; it was the measured boundary of an adult woman whose presence was already sealed within this house.

"The night wears on, Marzouq," Bandar said, offering a cold, formal tilt of the head devoid of warmth. "Yet the talk moving through the offices at KAFD runs thick.