Chapter 22 · Untitled Chapter

I did not take the notebook. I left it lying beside the brass key, open to the page where my foolish, invented names ended and the truth began. Let him read how small my understanding had been before he pulled me down from the gallery; the ink belonged to yesterday, and yesterday had been burned to ash between four locked walls.

I drew the edge of the Tarha firmly across my forehead, tucking the stray wisps of dark hair away from the morning light. My fingers moved down the front of the Abaya, pressing the concealed snaps shut one by one, from collar to hem, until the silk hung straight, dark, and impenetrable once more. I smoothed the fabric over my ribs.

The ache remained beneath the cloth, deep in the marrow of my hips, a heavy, secret weight that tied me to the room behind me, but my spine did not bend.

Mansour did not shift his stance by the window. His broad shoulders were outlined against the pale grey wash of the Najd dawn, his crisp white thobe immaculate, untouched by the storm that had held us through the hours of the night.