What would my family be doing today, I wondered. Away from home, from their friends and family as I was. The Tazalghit celebrated the Mawlid just as we did—Massinia had been one of them, after all. Maybe they would celebrate together.

‘Imad and I’timad stood on the steps of the zaouia along with the other malawi and handed out gifts—small velvet bags that I knew contained a few coins, some sweets, and a few tiny trinkets. They were clearly well loved in their city, as well loved as Idris was in Al Hoceima.

There was an air to the celebrations—hope. I hadn’t asked, but I wondered if last year’s Mawlid had been as vibrant, as full of cheer. The daughter of their late queen was in the city, preparing to host the feast beside her Kushaila husband. She had brought with her a coterie of important nobles, but it seemed even the presence of the Vath—who salted the fields and burned the farms outside the city during the war to starve them out—could not dampen their joy.

Tala and I worked our way through too much food while the recitations wound down and the crowds in the street thinned. At last the newsreels switched to the enormous receiving yard at the front of the Azaghari palace. It had been transformed overnight from a carriage and transport yard to a lush courtyard capable of hosting royalty. From the walls hung the banners of the Banu Mas’ud, the Banu Salih, and the Banu Ziyad: blue and gold, red, and green. Singers arrived first and set up in the center of the courtyard.

We didn’t have to wait long for the royal members of the household to fill the gallery around the courtyard. ‘Imad and I’timad led the procession, with Maram and her Vathek cousin Ofal beside her, and Idris, Tariq, and Khulood behind them.

I felt a swell of pride as Maram took her seat and gestured for the rest of the courtiers to do the same. Here was Maram’s court and her power and its love for her. There was the city, grateful for her patronage. There were the children of collaborators and royalists alike, secure in their position in relation to her. Proud and happy and full of hope.

The apartments in Azaghar were much like the apartments I’d been given in Khenitra—two levels facing an open courtyard and a glass ceiling, and from there we could hear the carousing that continued in the city.

Tala and I sat in the open salon facing the courtyard, more food between us.

“You know,” she began. “When I first met you, I could not have imagined you capable of all you’ve done.”

I smiled. “What did you think I was capable of?”