Chapter 26 · Chapter 26

The uncle’s hand remained suspended between us, his fingers curled into a rigid claw that hovered barely an inch from the silk cord at my waist. His breath smelled of bitter cloves and stale tobacco, hot against the chilled air of the gallery.

For a fraction of a second, the instinct of every woman who had ever stood under an elder’s shadow told me to lower my eyes, to yield the weight of the brass ring before the silence tore into an open scandal.

I did not lower my eyes. I held the heavy brass loop pressed against my palm beneath the folds of my black abaya, my spine locked against the carved cedar molding of the doorframe.

Before his knuckles could brush the fabric, a hand intervened.

It did not strike; it did not shove. Marzouq stepped into the narrow corridor with the silent, heavy grace that belonged entirely to his house, catching the older man’s forearm in an iron grip just below the cuff of his thobe. The movement was so clean, so devoid of theatrical fury, that the rustle of Marzouq’s starch-crisp sleeve was the only sound that cut through the vaulted hallway.

"Ammi," Marzouq said.