Chapter 29 · Chapter 29

The quiet in the private wing did not linger into the late afternoon. When the knock came again at the outer door, it was not the hurried strike of a servant, but the slow, measured rap of an elder’s wooden cane against the threshold.

Marzouq did not move at once. He stood before the tall mirror set into the alcove, lifting his black bisht with its fine border of beaten gold thread, letting the heavy wool settle squarely over his shoulders. His thobe was immaculate, pressed and stark white against the dark weave of the mantle. When he turned his head toward me, his gaze was steady, void of haste or apprehension.

"The northern hall is open," he said quietly.

I reached for my black abaya from the carved stand, slipping my arms through the wide sleeves of matte silk. I drew the matching shaila over my hair, tucking every stray strand beneath the fold, pinning the fabric with practiced precision at the hollow of my throat. In the private wing, the air was warm with the dying embers of oud and the scent of our shared seclusion.