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‘Not unless your idea of upset is being photographed with a stunning woman,’ laughed Haroun.
It was only after gentle prompting that she was persuaded to tell them about Suleiman and how much she loved him. Her voice was shaky as she said it, because she’d realised that the truth was something she couldn’t keep running from either.
‘But it’s over,’ she said.
Ella looked at Haroun, and frowned. ‘You like Suleiman, don’t you, darling?’
‘I don’t like him when I’m playing backgammon,’ Haroun growled.
Sara was shown to her old room and there, set between the two gold-framed portraits of her late mother and father, was a book about horses, which Suleiman had bought for her twelfth birthday, just before she’d left for England.
For the brave and fearless Sara, he had written. Your friend, Suleiman. Always.
And that was when the sobs began to erupt from her throat, because she had been none of those things, had she? She had not been brave and fearless—she had been a coward who had run away and hidden and neglected her family. She hadn’t lived up to Suleiman’s expectations of her. She hadn’t been a real friend. She hadn’t fulfilled her potential in so many ways.
She bathed and changed and dried her eyes and Ella knocked on the door, to take her to the nursery. And that was poignant, too. Shielded from the light by swathed swags of softest tulle lay a sleeping baby in the large, rocking cot she had slept in herself. For a moment Sara touched the side and felt it sway, watching as Ella lifted out the sleepy infant.
Ayesha was soft and smiling, with a mop of silken curls and a pair of deep violet eyes. Sara felt her heart fill with love as she touched her fingertip to the baby’s plump and rosy cheek.
‘Oh, she’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘How old is she now?’
‘Nine months,’ said Ella. ‘I know. Time flies and all that. And by the way—they say she looks just like you.’
‘Do they?’
Ella smiled. ‘Check out your baby photos if you don’t believe me.’
Sara stared into the baby’s eyes and felt the sharp twist of pain. Was it normal to feel wistful for what might have been, but now never would? To imagine what kind of baby she and Suleiman might have produced?
‘I wonder if she’d come to me,’ she said, pulling a smiley face at the baby as she held out her arms.
But Ayesha wriggled and turned her face away and started to cry.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Ella. ‘She’ll get used to you.’
It took four days before Ayesha would consent to have her auntie hold her, but once she had—she seemed reluctant to ever let her go. Sara wondered if the baby instinctively guessed how badly she needed the cuddles. Or maybe there was some kind of inbuilt recognition—the primitive bond of
shared blood.
She fitted in with Haroun and Ella’s routine, and began to relax as she reacquainted herself with Dhi’ban and life at court. She went riding with her brother. She helped Ella with the baby and quickly grew to love her sister-in-law.
One afternoon the two women were wheeling the pram through the palace gardens, their heads covered with shady hats. The week off work which Gabe had given her was almost up and Sara knew that she needed to give some serious thought to her future.
She just hadn’t decided what she wanted that future to be.
‘Shall we go back now?’ questioned Ella, her soft voice breaking into Sara’s thoughts.
‘Yes, let’s.’
Along the scented paths they walked, back towards the palace, but as they grew closer Sara saw a dark figure silhouetted against the white marble building. For a moment her eyes widened, until she forced her troubled mind to listen to reason. Please stop this, she prayed silently. Stop conjuring up hallucinations which make me think I can actually see him.
She ran her hand across her eyelids, but when she opened them again he was still there and her steps faltered.
‘Is something wrong?’
Did Ella’s voice contain suppressed laughter—or was she imagining that, too?
‘For a minute then, I thought I saw Suleiman.’
