Chapter 21 · Chapter 21

I took the finjan from his hand with my right fingers, the delicate porcelain radiating heat against my palm. The steam rose between us, bitter with lightly roasted bean and sharp with cardamom, cutting cleanly through the lingering warmth of amber and oud that settled over the private wing.

I raised the cup and drank. The heat burned down my throat, grounding and unyielding. When I had taken the third sip, I gave the small vessel a slight, deliberate tilt, and he took it back without a word, setting it beside the silver dallah.

Beyond the parted drapes of the high window, the Riyadh night was finally beginning to fracture. Pale, silvery gray crept along the edge of the limestone walls outside, illuminating the quiet geometry of the courtyard below. The date palms stood motionless in the early dawn chill, their fronds sharp against the emerging light.

And there, resting beside the silver tray on the low table, lay the heavy brass keys.

He had not pocketed them. He had not hidden them behind a locked drawer or slipped them into his cuff.