Chapter 36 · Chapter 36

I accepted the finjan with my right hand, steadying the fragile porcelain between my thumb and forefinger. The bitter, fragrant steam of cardamom rose against the chill of the morning air, hot and sharp.

Across the hall, twenty pairs of eyes followed the arc of the steam, watching the daughter of Al-Enezi drink before any patriarch in the line was served. I took a single sip, tilted the rim once in a slight horizontal gesture, and handed the cup back. The server bowed his head and withdrew without a sound.

Beside me, Salman did not stir. His hands rested on the carved armrests of his chair, the dark wool of his bisht falling in precise, undisturbed folds over his white thobe. The heavy silence of the majlis was not an absence of sound, but an enclosure of will—the heba that held every whisper hostage.

From the low table between us, a clerk lifted a heavy leather folio bound in calfskin and set it squarely before Salman.