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‘That will be all,’ he said abruptly. ‘Thank you. Dr Basim, you will remain.’
The others bowed and filed out. Sensing suspense wouldn’t be tolerated, the doctor reached for his briefcase. ‘Your Highness, I’ve consulted my old notes. We’ll need to do further tests, of course, but the blood type I have on file matches yours. And I’ve gathered pictures of all royal skin markings including the Princess and your...um... King Nazir’s. The one of the Princess is an identical match to yours.’
King Nazir. Her father. Maybe.
A jagged whimper left her throat. Zufar’s warm hand enfolded hers, lending her much-needed strength. ‘What...what was his...their full names?’
Zufar answered, ‘Your father’s name is...was...King Nazir Al-Bakar, Sheikh of Rumadah, and your mother was Queen Ayeesha. If the records are correct you also had an older brother, Jamil, who perished in the crash. Your own name is Princess Nazira Fatima Al-Bakar, named after your father.’
Nazira not Niesha.
She had a name. A history. But she was still all alone.
Her cracked heart broke into further pieces at the thought of the parents and brother she would never meet, never share a smile or a joke with. Never confess her worries to or share theirs. ‘How did you know?’ she croaked.
‘I did some research of my own while you were asleep.’
‘A-and?’ Her voice shook horribly but she was past caring.
‘And you are the exact likeness of your mother,’ Zufar delivered with a deep, low voice. ‘In hindsight, it’s astonishing how the similarities could’ve been missed.’
Shock continued to reel through her. In some distant corner of her mind, she knew she was crying but she couldn’t help her tears. ‘Because no one was looking for a pr-princess in an orphanage. Or in a chambermaid’s uniform.’
Silence throbbed as her words seeped into their very bones. A moment later, Zufar handed her a handkerchief.
She dabbed her eyes, then refocused on the doctor. ‘You said you’ll need to do further tests?’
‘Your blood type is rare. So was your father’s. Because of that we kept samples in storage in case they were needed for surgery. Comparing yours to his won’t be a problem.’
‘But how can they still be in storage twenty years later?’
‘The laws of your kingdom prohibit the destruction or disposal of a king’s property for twenty-five years in case of his sudden death and no heir apparent. But besides the blood, there are other forms of DNA we can test. With your permission, of course, Your Highness.’
Niesha nodded numbly, shock holding her prisoner. ‘I... Of course. You have my permission.’ She bit her lip, unable to contain what was happening to her. ‘But...how is it that I ended up in Khalia and not Zyria with my family?’
Zufar’s hand tightened on hers. ‘The place where the tragedy happened was very close to the border with Khalia, separated by a deep ravine. I think you were thrown clear when the accident happened and you wandered off.’
‘What? But I was only five years old.’
‘I only met you a few times, Your Highness, but you struck me as very determined, even at such a young age. You may have gone to seek help and got lost. Or you may just have been disorientated, the trauma wiped from your memory by the time you were discovered,’ Dr Basim said.
Niesha realised then that she would never truly have all the answers she sought. But there was one deep, burning curiosity she could satisfy. She licked her dry lips and nodded to the sleek tablet lying on the coffee table. ‘Can I see... Do you have pictures of my family?’
‘Of course,’ Zufar said, reaching for the tablet.
Seconds later, she found herself staring into eyes that looked so much like her own, further tears welled. Her mother was delicately beautiful, like a rare flower. Her father stood tall, broad-shouldered in traditional clothes. His eyes were darker than hers but, within the depths, Niesha recognised herself. Her soul.
She moved to another picture. In this one, a candid shot probably taken in between more scripted ones, her parents were staring at each other with such utter devotion that the camera was an intrusion. Her gaze moved to her brother and her heart began to break all over again.
Jamil.
Eight at the time of his death, he bore all the hallmarks of turning out just like their father.
Lastly, she located a picture of herself as a child. She wore a deep lavender dress with a white ribbon tied at the waist. The ribbons were replicated in her hair and she was beaming at the camera, leaning forwards with the eagerness and impatience of a five-year-old. Her hands were propped on her knees, and there, clear as day, was the starfish imprinted on her skin.
At the sight of the birthmark, another sob escaped.
‘Niesha.’ Zufar’s voice held a throb of concern, but she waved him away.
