Chapter 23 · Chapter 23

The heavy silence of the dawn was broken not by a raised voice, but by the measured, echoing strike of a cane against the marble corridor outside.

I rose immediately from the low divan. Before my fingers even brushed the dark silk of my abaya draped across the mahogany armoire, Turki was already standing. His movement was quiet, deliberate, without the frantic haste of a man caught unawares.

He fastened the stiff high collar of his white thobe, his thumb resting for half a second over the cuff before he turned to me. He waited in silence while I drew the black fabric over my shoulders and arranged the shaila across my hair, concealing every lock until only the composure of my face remained exposed.

Only when my pins were set and my posture straight did he turn toward the double cedar doors separating the inner sanctuary of the private wing from the northern gallery.

Two sharp raps rattled the solid timber.

"Turki," came the voice of my uncle, Abu Fahad. It was laced with the thin, brittle authority of an elder who felt the reins slipping through his fingers. "Open this door.