Chapter 8 · Chapter 8

The doors of the majlis were still open when the argument turned.

Not the argument I had made. That one had died the moment Faisal set his finjan down—died politely, in the way of this house, without anyone saying so. What came after was the real one, the one that lived in the corridor outside, and it had walked in on its own two feet wearing a thobe and carrying a leather file.

The clerk from the diwan set the file on the low table, opened it, and did not sit.

"Ya ustadh," he said, to no one in particular, meaning everyone. "The Sunday appointment requires the record closed by Thursday. If the paper is to bear a name, the name is entered before the runners go out."

My cousin Saud leaned forward. "Then enter mine."

"Yours is not the one she wrote," said another, from the far end. "It is hers, and it is wrong, and the wrongness is the trouble."

"Then let it be a cousin's correction."

And the room was off, the way a room goes off—