Chapter 16 · Chapter 16

The corridor had its own sound once the doors were shut—the settling of old cedar, the tick of a brass lamp cooling, and then the steps.

They came from the far end. Unhurried at first, then deliberate. Eight paces, and a stop, and the stop carried weight in it, the way a senior man’s weight lands when he has already determined the outcome before crossing the threshold.

"Ammi," I said toward the wood. Not loud. Not a plea—simply naming him, so that the locked room and I agreed on who stood outside.

His voice reached through the door of the chamber and the wing door beyond, thinned by the heavy grain but carrying no give.

"Open it."

Neither of us answered him.

"You do not put a family's name behind a locked door and call the latch shelter," my uncle said from the passage. "You do not stand in an open majlis, halt a formal record, and expect the room to forget. The elders were present. I was present. The seats were filled."

Salman had not stepped away from the door.