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“Let me try.” She fingered the rock once more, the tip of her tongue poking out of her lips as she recalled Amit’s throwing motion. She drew her arm backwards, eyed the water carefully, and then released the rock.
It sank immediately, and she laughed, turning to face Amit. A reluctant smile was on his own lips.
“That was pathetic, your highness,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. “But no worse than my first dozen or so attempts.”
Her gaze jerked to his. “You know who I am?”
“Of course. You’re the Sheikh’s wife.”
“Why do you call him that?” She asked slowly.
“It’s his title.”
“But you’re… surely you, of all people, could be excused from such formality?”
“Why should I be?” He asked, turning his attention back to the pile of stones to his right side, with all the appearance of calm. But Chloe had the advantage, for she knew his father, and had become adept at reading Raffa’s expressions and understanding their meaning. She knew then that the boy was dissembling. He didn’t know she knew who he was, and he was trying to protect her.
It was on the tip of her tongue to disabuse him of that notion when it occurred to her that forcing him to admit his parentage to his step-mother might make him even more uncomfortable. She had no interest in doing any such thing, and so she allowed the fiction to pass. There’d be time to address it with her husband.
“It doesn’t matter,” she demurred simply. “Show me another one. Otherwise, how will I know that first wasn’t a fluke?”
“A fluke?” He shook his head. “It was no such thing. See?” And he skimmed another rock perfectly.
She stayed with him almost an hour, mostly in contented silence. But the desert winds of Ras El Kida were unusual, and she had not Amit’s skill in reading them. He paused when his pile of stones was only half-empty, and turned to her.
“We must leave now.”
“Why?” She’d been having a better time than she’d imagined possible, within the grounds of the ancient palace.
“A sandstorm. Can’t you smell it?”
She shook her head and breathed in, tasting only the freshness of the tree-filled air.
“It’s the clay,” he said, shaking his head and standing, before lowering his hands for her grip. He helped her up, then put a hand in the small of her back. Again, she was reminded of Raffa, of that confidence that must surely have been innate. “This way.” He guided her through the forest, a different way to that which had brought her to him. His path was more direct, though steeper, so she slipped once and had to break her fall by grabbing the branches of a tree. It cut her hand though so she had a small amount of blood in her palm.
“Are you okay?” Amit asked with obvious consternation.
“I’m fine.”
She kept moving, but Amit stalled her, with a quick, urgent: “Look!”
Chloe followed the direction of his outstretched hand, frowning as her eyes adjusted. “What?”
“Look!” he said, pointing again. And in the distance, she did see it. Barely discernible at first, there was a haze far away, but it was getting closer, plumes rising from the desert sands into a sky that was turning from blue to black before her eyes.
“Hurry,” he murmured, gripping her hand and pulling her after him.
Her hair caught on a branch and she lifted her free hand to hold it back from her face.
They were close to the palace now, so that within minutes they’d entered the garden to the side – a grove of fruit trees that were as fragrant as they were beautiful. But their divine scent was dampened by what Amit had detected far, far earlier than she. Now Chloe smelled it, thick in the air. He’d called it clay, she’d have said tar. An earthy, over-heated, rumbling smell that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
They reached the palace when the storm was dangerously close to them. Security guards didn’t meet Chloe’s eyes but she saw the surprise in their faces as she and Amit rounded a corner and headed towards a large, open doorway.
“You fool,” one of the guards chastened Amit, and pleasure instantly extinguished from the young boy’s face.
He lifted his radio transceiver and began to speak into it. Amit shot the man a fulminating glare, so reminiscent of Raffa’s that Chloe was once more amused by their likenesses, before gripping her wrist and pulling her into the palace.
“You have to go,” he said urgently, then frowned. “You have blood on your face.”
