Chapter 9 · Chapter 9

The corridor between the majlis and the private wing was the coldest stretch of stone in this house, and it was not the Shamal that made it so, though the wind had been pressing against the glass since the previous night and the entire house seemed to breathe through a single door.

I was there first. That was deliberate. I stood with my back to the high window so the morning light fell behind me, forcing him to walk into it to reach me. My Abaya was fastened to the throat, the Tarha pinned close, and my hands left empty, because a woman holding a cup can be mistaken for a woman inclined to be gentle.

Nuaim brought the Gahwa because he was a careful steward and knew this house did not permit a man and a woman to linger in an open corridor with nothing between them. He poured from the Dallah, lifting the brass high so the stream fell clean into a Finjan filled short of the brim, and offered it with his right hand, first to me. I took it.