Chapter 39 · Chapter 39

Not a single man in the hall dared to draw breath loudly enough to disturb the rise of oud smoke between the pillars.

Abu Fahad remained frozen on his low cushion, his hand resting half-open near his knee where his own finjan had gone cold. The confidence that had filled his chest minutes before had collapsed entirely, leaving only the sallow slackness of an elder whose wager had broken beneath him.

Around the perimeter of the carpet, the younger cousins looked down at the weave, their shoulders rigid, none of them willing to catch the gaze of the man at the Sadr.

I remained standing near the arched entry, my black abaya draped straight, my fingers clasped lightly over the dark silk of my shaila. I did not retreat behind the screen, and no one possessed the audacity to tell me to move. My testimony had already cut through their fabrication; Talal’s living presence had finished it.

Talal did not raise his voice. He took one measured sip of the bitter, cardamom-rich brew, his dark eyes never wavering from Abu Fahad’s pale face.