Chapter 19 · Chapter 19

The gray light sharpened along the marble edge of the baseboard, turning the dust motes into cold specks of silver. The room smelled of Taif rose and the bitter residue of old oud smoke settled deep into the heavy curtains.

Salman rose before the silence had entirely broken in the corridor outside. He moved without haste, the sound of his bare feet against the wool rug deliberate and soft. When he reached for his white thobe draped across the high-backed chair, he did not turn to see whether my eyes were open, though he knew they were.

I remained propped against the pillows, my hair pulled back over one shoulder, watching his silhouette against the tall, narrow slit of the window. He fastened the stiff collar with steady fingers, smoothing the linen flat over his chest. Every line of his posture was restored to the weight he carried into the hall—that unbending, silent authority that made lesser men lower their eyes before he had even taken the central seat.

He did not speak until he reached the heavy inner door.

The brass latch was cold and thick.