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“This is what I came to speak to you about.”
My heart lurches. “My father?”
“Indirectly.” His eyes meet mine and it’s like being seared with a hot coal. My stomach flips and the ground seems to tremble beneath my feet. I am lost, untethered, unsure for a split second of my loyalties. I can see that this pains him, and I feel a horrible, unforgivable inclination to back away, to tell him to not worry about it right now. But dad! How could I ever shelve his concerns like that when bringing him home is the sole reason I came to Qabid?
I tilt my chin in defiance against my own inclinations, holding his eyes for several seconds before he returns his attention to the coffee pot. He lifts the lid – the aroma in the room intensifies – then he pulls two small cups from another cupboard. I wonder how he knows his way around this room so well, but don’t ask the question. Am I afraid of the answer? Is it the spectre of a previous occupant that has my mouth filling with acid?.
He pours the liquid into the two cups, placing one on the kitchen bench and nodding at it. “For you.”
I hesitate before curiosity draws me nearer. I curve my fingers around the fine ceramic and lift it to my nose first. His eyes are on me, watching me, waiting for my reaction. I blow across the top so swirls of white steam drift from the rim.
“Do you remember where you grew up?”
Sadness moves through me, emulating the pattern of the steam. “I grew up in North Carolina.”
He nods. “Of course. I mean where you spent the first few years of your life.”
The coffee is delicious. It’s only in acknowledging that I realise a part of me had wanted to dislike it. To disapprove of something he’s obviously so proud of, something so innately Qabidi. Something he implied my father didn’t appreciate. I take another drink, letting the heat and flavour fortify me.
He’s watching, waiting for my response. I lift my shoulders, conscious suddenly of the fact I’m still in pyjamas. It’s nothing new – he saw me like this in the desert, on our ‘honeymoon’, and yet self-consciousness floods me now. Ridiculous. Yesterday we spent hours making love, and this morning I’m like that blushing virgin he accused me of being.
As if he’s reading the direction of my thoughts, his eyes drift lower, conducting an insouciant inspection of my breasts. They tingle, aching for his touch. I arrange my features into a haughty mask and when I speak it’s with a voice tinged with ice. “I was exiled along with my father, remember? And I was only six. So, no, your highness. I don’t remember very much at all about the town I used to live in.”
It’s not completely true. I remember lots of things. Unimportant minutiae that come to me as snatches of information when I least expect it. The sound of the bell calling for prayers, the smell of the street stalls preparing food in the evenings, the noise of children playing freely outside, the darkness of the nights – so far from urban civilisation, the sky inky black just as it had been in the desert.
He doesn’t visibly respond to my cool answer, simply nods, sipping his own coffee, his hand looking ridiculously huge on the tiny cup. “I have a meeting with some of the town leaders not far from Thakirt, the village where your father’s home is. Your home. I thought you might like to come with me.”
Surprise has my lips parting, my fingers trembling slightly.
“Really?” I can’t help the tone of surprise from creeping into my voice.
He dips his head in agreement. “Having you in this region will be a good – benchmark.”
My eyes narrow. “You mean a test?”
It’s his turn to shrug, broad shoulders that draw my eyes even when I want to blot out his physical attractiveness.
“I mean an opportunity to evaluate the situation better.” He finishes his coffee, replacing the cup on the bench. “An opportunity for our marriage to do what it was supposed to. Your presence as my wife will placate members of this region who would like, more than anything, to see a Hassan on the throne.”
I nod slowly. “Fine. Yes. Let’s do it.”
“Can you be ready in an hour?”
I glance at my wristwatch and nod. “I think so. What’s the rush?”
“I should have thought you’d be impatient to see it?”
A kaleidoscope of butterflies bursts through my tummy. “I am.”
“Good.” There’s an intensity in his gaze that fires heat in my veins. “Aliya will bring you to the car when it’s time.”
“Okay.”
“You’re sure you’re well enough?”
I analyse his tone for any hint of scepticism, for any clue that he knows I lied last night, but hear only a bland request for assurance. Even if I were close to death’s door, I wouldn’t want to miss this, but given that the worst ailment afflicting me is a case of sleep deprivation, I nod quickly.
He’s at the door when he turns back to face me. “It will be an overnight stay, Amy.”
