Chapter 23 · Chapter 23

"The day will not close on a falsehood," I said, my voice cutting through the stillness of the hall with deliberate calm. "The Al-Harthy name carries only what was agreed between us, nothing more. Excuse me, Ammi."

I dipped my head once to my uncle, gathered the hem of my black silk Abaya, and stepped away from the threshold of the majlis. Behind me, the low murmur of grave voices resumed, but Nawaf remained motionless in the center of the hall, his silence an unyielding anchor.

I walked down the stone corridor that separated the public quarters from the inner sanctuary of the estate, where the cedarwood doors sealed out the formal tension of the reception. Inside the private wing, the atmosphere was quiet, perfumed faintly with the cold warmth of Taif rose and burning Oud.

A single brass lamp cast amber pools over the low divans and the mother-of-pearl table where the sealed archive box had been placed earlier that afternoon.

I drew my Shaila slightly looser over my hair and sat before the chest. With a silver key that had rested untouched in my travel case for five years, I turned the lock.