Chapter 32 · Chapter 32

The morning light broke sharp and pale across the limestone courtyard of the northern wing, cutting through the thin veil of dust that settled over Riyadh with the dawn. I remained in the inner reception room of my family’s residence, the black silk of my Abaya fastened to the throat, falling straight and still to the polished floor. My Tarha rested securely over my hair, arranged for the formal hours of the house.

Outside, the corridors held the quiet of a house preparing for a reckoning. The elders believed the circle was closing around Talal Al-Zahrani. They believed that when the majlis convened at mid-day, they would sit upon the low divans, sip their Gahwa, and carve up what remained of his commercial standing until nothing remained of his weight or voice. Every whisper that passed through the screens treated him as a man already laid bare.

A measured knock sounded at the outer threshold, followed by the low voice of our household steward.

"Sayyidati Mariam," he said, keeping his eyes lowered beyond the archway. "A courier stands in the vestibule. He does not carry the seal of the council, nor did he come through Abu Khalid’s men.