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I grind my teeth. “I told you! The only reason I married you was so daddy could come home.” I revert to my childhood title for him, a name I haven’t used in a very long time, out of a strange defensiveness for the older man.
“And you think he isn’t already planning how to use your status in my palace to his advantage?”
“How could he be?” I demand, infuriated. My body shakes with the force of my rage. “He doesn’t even know I’m here, Zahir! He has no idea I came back, no idea I married you. He doesn’t know any of it.”
He stares at me, his eyes ravaging my face in a determined hunt for the truth.
“I didn’t want to tell him,” I say defensively. “Not until I knew he could return for sure. Being stranded in America has been almost impossible for him, but having false hope of coming home, only to have it taken away?” I shake my head wistfully. “I think that would kill him.”
His face is inscrutable once more. I have no idea what’s going on behind those dark eyes of his. He’s so good at hiding what he’s thinking and feeling.
I’m not. I fear my anger and frustration must show clearly.
“You’re very close to him.”
My heart rolls at the unexpected question. “Yes.”
His eyes probe mine. “You’re like him?”
I frown. “In what way?”
He turns away from me, walking towards the table and pouring a glass of water. He takes a drink, then holds it to me. I shake my head.
“Would you say your personality is like his?”
I don’t need to give that much consideration. “No.” My lips twist wistfully. “I think I’m more like my mum.”
Silence sparks between us, and I wait, wondering if he’s evaluating my suggesting, if perhaps I’ve convinced him.
“A baby will be necessary, Emira.”
He uses the title, perhaps, to remind me of my duties now, my obligations to this ancient land my father loves so much.
A shiver runs the length of my spine. “But not right away.” I intend it to come out strong, but instead it sounds like a plea. I try again. “Can’t we just take some time to get used to all this, first?”
His eyes glitter like black diamonds when they meet mine.
“A little time,” he concedes, with a dip of his head. “But not much.”
It’s a temporary reprieve, but I’ll take it.
“I have something for you.”
I look at him, my nerve endings still firing from our earlier conversation, his certainty that we must have children.
“What is it?”
“A wedding present.”
“Seriously?” My lips tug downwards. “You didn’t have to do that.” He hands me a gift, small in shape. I pull at the tissue paper, golden in colour and almost translucent, drawing it outwards slowly to reveal something remarkable. Inside is the most delicate and perfect egg – porcelain and incredibly fine, so that even held within the palm of my hand I fear breaking it. The shell is covered in an ornate pattern, links of turquoise and yellow scrawl across it, enchanting me with the detail.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, my eyes lifting to his. Emotions stir deep in my chest. “It’s so strange. My mom used to have something similar to this.” I hold it up to the light, the shell shimmering at this angle. “Hers was less delicate, a little larger.”
His brow knits together. “You really do not know our culture, do you?”
The words sting more than they should. I stare at him blankly. “What do you mean?”
“It is a Qabidi tradition that a groom will give his bride an egg on their wedding night. It used to be a real egg, but over time, these became more popular, and ceramic is now the standard.”
