Chapter 7 · Chapter 7

They took the cups away before the majlis had lost its warmth. The attendant worked from the right, stacking finjans on a lacquered brass tray, and when he came to mine I said, "Ya'teek al-afiyah." He inclined his head with practiced courtesy and did not lift his gaze to my face.

Then the heavy screens that divided the room were drawn aside, and the men entered.

I did not shift. The third cushion was mine, and it was the only seat in this hall whose claim was beyond dispute. My Abaya remained fastened to the throat, the tarha secure over my hair, my hands resting still in my lap where every eye could measure them. In this house, a hand kept in plain sight is a hand that yields nothing.

Ammi Fahd came last.

He did not sit at once. He stood at the center of the carpets with the archive case beneath his arm—my transcript sealed within it, and my invented woman written into its margins—letting the silence gather until two of my cousins found their own slippers worth their contemplation.