Chapter 34 · Chapter 34

The double doors of the private wing opened outward, releasing us back into the stone corridor that led toward the majlis. I adjusted the black folds of my Abaya, pulling the sheer silk of my Tarha neatly across my hair, ensuring no edge slipped out of place.

Beside me, Marzouq walked with the unhurried, measured stride of a man who owned the ground beneath his boots. His white Thobe was spotless, the gold thread along the seam of his dark Bisht catching the recessed lamps along the wall.

Inside the majlis, the air was heavy with the dense warmth of Oud rising from the carved silver Mabkhara on the low console. The gathered men of both households sat in rigid silence along the perimeter, but all eyes drifted toward the head table set at the sadr. My uncle sat three chairs down, his fingers gripping the rim of his empty Finjan, his jaw tight with grievances he no longer possessed the leverage to voice.

The leather bag sat where it had been left hours before, its brass buckle undone, the pale scrap of paper resting flat beside its base. Nobody touched it.