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Alba pursed her lips and wondered if she would still be living in the palace when Yamina became an adult. The thought was unpleasant on several levels. The Sultan appeared to be in no hurry to arrange marriages for his daughters. Alba had had her fill of palace life—of the endless intrigues, of the constant tiptoeing around her father’s anger. If her father wasn’t going to arrange a marriage for her, she would have to find a way to escape.
Pressing her lips firmly together, Alba hugged her cousin. A sturdy leg had escaped its wrappings. Heart hurting, she stroked it gently.
‘Your daughter is beautiful,’ she said. ‘You are very blessed.’
‘Thank you.’
Soft voices reached them. A woman laughed. Her uncle’s harem was coming to life.
‘I ought to leave.’
‘That would be wise, my lady.’
Alba handed Yamina back and the young mother’s face softened into an expression of love and acceptance. It was then that the realisation hit home. Men didn’t understand love, they didn’t need it. Alba couldn’t be more different, she needed love as she needed air. She craved it. Love was what was missing from her life. This tiny child had shown her as much. If she had a baby...
Her days had felt empty because she had no one to love and care for. Naturally, Alba had her sisters, but she had come to fear that the love she felt for her sisters was all that she would ever have. She was a woman grown and sisterly affection was no longer enough.
Her mind raced. Given the number of concubines that must live in this harem, the bond between men and women must be weak indeed.
How many women lived in her father’s harem? She’d heard he kept a harem and had often wondered if that had been true in her mother’s time. How long had Father spent mourning Mamá? A month? A week? A day?
The murmur of voices drifted through the arched doorway. Water was being poured. There was much splashing. A loud yawn. It was odd to think that here in Prince Ghalib’s harem, Alba had been given a glimpse of real love. The bond between a mother and her child was surely stronger than steel.
Conscious that they might be interrupted, Alba drew her veil over her face. She hesitated. Before she left, there was something she must ask. ‘Is my father’s harem close by?’
The young woman’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Why, yes, my lady, if you continue down the path, it’s the next building.’
Alba’s hands fisted in her robes. ‘Was it here when my mother was alive?’
Her uncle’s concubine blinked. ‘I was not brought to the palace until after the Queen’s death, but I believe so. Generations of sultans have kept harems here.’
‘So, it’s true,’ Alba murmured.
‘My lady?’
‘Never mind. Thank you for allowing me to hold Yamina. Farewell.’
‘Farewell, my lady. Blessings upon you.’
‘And upon you.’
Curtain rings were clattering, trailing silks were whispering over the marble floor. Another few moments and the women and children of the harem would be fully awake. If anyone saw Alba, she would face a barrage of questions, she had lingered too long. Giving the young mother a parting smile, she slipped out of the chamber.
Swiftly, she retraced her path through the orange grove. The sky was tinged with pink and the tower Sultan Tariq had built for the three Princesses loomed up in front of her. It was an imposing building, so much so, that when Alba had first seen it, she hadn’t noticed how far it was from the rest of the palace. That had not been an accident, she realised. Sultan Tariq didn’t want his daughters near the rest of the harem.
From this angle the Princesses’ tower, though glowing warmly in the rays of the rising sun, looked as forbidding as a prison. Goosebumps ran down her back.
What if the Sultan decided to keep his daughters in the tower until they were wrinkled and grey? He was so controlling, it was entirely possible. Look at what had happened to Mamá. The Queen had been born in the neighbouring Kingdom of Castile and she’d had the misfortune to be captured by the Sultan’s troops. The story went that as soon as the Sultan set eyes on his Spanish captive, he’d wanted her.
It hadn’t been love. It couldn’t have been love, as far as Sultan Tariq was concerned love was all about possession. He’d made Mamá his Queen and she’d never returned to Spain.
Had Mamá been given the chance to refuse him? Alba doubted it.
Had she missed her homeland? Most likely.
Was that why Mamá had died when she and her sisters were small? Was her father’s iron will to blame?
Briefly, Alba wondered if she was misjudging him. She burned to know whether he had plans for her and her sisters. They had reached marriageable age, and not once had he mentioned marriage. If she never married, she’d never have a child.
