Chapter 33 · Untitled Chapter

The heavy latch settled into its housing with a hollow, dead weight. Inside the expanse of the majlis, the smoke of burned paper still tangled with the heavy drift of aged Oud, bitter and sharp against the cardamoms that had cooled in the brass Dallah.

The steward turned away from the sealed doors. He adjusted the cuff of his thobe, his eyes skimming the floor before rising to meet mine with practiced deference.

"Sayyidati," he said, his voice lowered to that precise, neutral register reserved for domestic decorum. "The inner quarters of the private wing are open. It would be quiet there. I will have fresh Gahwa brought to the sitting room so you may rest away from the passage."

It was not an order, but an invitation shaped by centuries of habit: women removed to the inner sanctuary while the dust of contention settled in the reception halls. For three years, I had occupied the space above—watching behind the carved lattice of the gallery, naming their silences, calculating their ambitions from behind cedar screens where no eye could demand an account of me.