Chapter 21 · Untitled Chapter

The air inside the wing thinned as the night lost its weight. Outside the high, narrow casement, the darkness of Riyadh was turning to the flat grey of slate before the first heat rose from the stone.

He did not pace. A man who carries his authority does not pace a floor to burn off what the dark has made of him. Mansour stood by the arched recess near the cedar table, his white Thobe buttoned to the throat, the stiff collar sharp against the line of his jaw.

He had adjusted his sleeves with the precise, unhurried care of someone preparing to receive elders in a formal hall, yet the room remained sealed, the deadbolt still thrown in the heavy timber.

Between us lay the residue of the hour: the scent of cool cardamom, the cold ash in the brass burner, and the small leather-bound notebook where I had kept my catalog of strangers. Next to it, undisturbed, sat my Abaya and the black Tarha folded over the carved arm of the chair.

I sat up slowly. My skin felt taut, marked by the unsparing clarity of what had been claimed and what had been surrendered.