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“Why don’t you like me, Aliya?”
Her eyes flit to mine, her manner immediately uneasy.
“I am not in the custom of liking anyone I work for,” she says quietly. “I have never considered it to be a quality required for my job.”
“It’s not,” I agree. “But you actively dislike me.”
She doesn’t respond, which is all the answer I need.
“My dad isn’t what you believe. He’s really not.”
Her lips compress and she is silent, apparently determined not to answer.
I echo her sigh and continue walking. There is a market at the end of the street and our security detail of four men tightens around us in a uniform manner, keeping others from coming too close. Despite this, as we cross an intersection, a young boy cycles past, almost knocking Aliya over. He swerves to avoid her, his bike hitting the ground, and I forget for a moment the money and power inherent to my title and scoop down to pick him up, making sure he’s okay. An adult joins us, speaking in rapid-fire Qabidi to the boy, then me, crouching beside me to check the boys’ leg. It’s the work of a second before the security guards are ushering them away, reminding me that I’m different, not simply a woman walking through an ancient town.
I smile as the boy cycles away, more memories flooding me. I was never allowed to ride a bike through the town, but I ran through these streets, just as fast as the boy travels now.
It’s silent as we drive back to the hall, but as the car slows down, almost to a stop, Aliya addresses me.
“I will endeavour to – actively like you, if it is important to you.”
The admission surprises me, and I turn to face Aliya in time to see a small smile on her lips.
“I – will endeavour not to annoy you quite so much,” I quip, indicating the outfit I’d worn today.
“You do not annoy me, your highness. You amuse me.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Really?”
“You are a fish out of water, but you have no intention of learning to breathe.” Her smile softens. “Qabid is different, but wonderful, and our Sheikh is a great man. You should not be so hard on him.”
To the side of the hall, a tent has been erected. It is muted in colour – burgundy, brown, navy blue with golden tassels and pale ropes tethering it to the desert floor. A rich red carpet is laid out in front, and on either side there are low-set pots, each glowing with flames. Music is being played – a flute and some kind of string instrument I don’t recognise. The sound is soft and gentle, calming. The air is fragranced with food, and my tummy rolls as we approach. Apart from the alum habi I have barely eaten all day. I smile as we get nearer, but then my legs turn hollow as I see him.
My husband.
Sheikh Zahir Al Adari.
He is surrounded by many people, and he is listening to them, nodding, as though their stories are the most important thing he’s ever heard. He lifts his head as I approach, holding a hand up to silence the old woman to his left, speaking to him in words that I can’t quite grasp. She looks to me and then the assembled guests part, those who are standing bow in deference. My cheeks heat.
Zahir indicates the ground beside him. There are no thrones here, only cushions, and one has been left empty for me. I sit on it, my knee brushing his, but I don’t recoil from the contact.
His eyes roam my face, as if looking for the answer to a question I can’t comprehend and then he turns back to the older woman, nodding at her encouragingly.
She begins to speak, but this time Zahir translates for me, his voice low and gruff, the flames in the distance flickering, casting him in a warm, golden light that is answered in every cell of my body. The woman is explaining the difficulties her granddaughter faces. She suffers from dyslexia and there’s no one at her school who is able to help.
After the woman has finished, Zahir turns to me. “What shall we do?”
I blink at him in consternation. “What do you mean?”
He leans closer, his words brushing my ear, sending goosebumps across my skin. “This is a mukta ba, a sharing. We hear the people’s needs and propose solutions. Can you think of one?”
Talk about being thrown off the deep end! I stare at him, completely lost, shaking my head a little. His smile is encouraging, then he speaks. “My first thought is providing salary bonuses for any teachers willing to undertake additional training for children with specific educational requirements.”
I expel a slow breath, nodding. He says something to a servant behind us and then another woman is ushered forward. She begins to speak to him. This goes on for an hour, until all those in attendance have been seen and heard, and then he stands, holding his hands out for me. I put mine in them, my heart somewhere inside my throat now. When he pulls me up, our bodies briefly brush, and that live wire of electricity takes hold once more.
“What do we do now?” My question is breathless.
“Eat,” he murmurs.
