His eyebrows flew up in shock and I laughed. “What have I done?”

“Nothing,” I assured him. “Although—well, it’s different from the last time. Maybe he won’t.”

“Last time?” he said, his voice choked.

“I was young,” I said, voice calm.

“You were young,” he repeated in the same tone he’d used when he objected to my offering up the necklace in competition. “You will have to tell me the story from the beginning.”

I was still grinning. I had been young—or rather, younger. Fifteen, in the first flushes of adolescence, exhilarated at what a smile might yield. And then of course horrified that anyone would take that smile too seriously.

“He worked in a bookshop in the capital,” I said, lifting a shoulder dismissively. “I didn’t think it was possible he was serious, and then he was, and instead of going to my parents I went to my brother.”

“Did your brother kill him?” he asked, his eyes dark.

I felt a strange, bubble-like joy take shape in my chest. Everything lately had felt heavy and difficult, and this felt lighter and easier than anything in the last few months.

“He didn’t,” I said, and reached over the shatranj board. My fingers tangled in the soft cloth of his shirt and I drew him forward, uncaring that the board was between. “Husnain will love you.”

“I’m not worried about him loving me,” he said, looking off to the side.

“Aziz, too—he will challenge you to shatranj, probably.” I wound my arms around his neck.

He still seemed a little sullen.

“Is it so difficult to imagine that others loved me before you?”

He shook his head.

“I have loved none but you,” I told him. “I love no one but you. I will love no one but you.”

“I just … sometimes I realize you could have your pick of the world, Amani,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to my shoulder.

“I chose you,” I replied. “And I have never regretted that choice.”

He looked up at me, before reaching for my braid. His fingers were nimble as he pulled pins and clips from it before it unwound and spilled down my back.

“You regretted it a little,” he murmured. “Enough to give this away.”

He held out his palm between us—nestled in its center was the emerald and pearl necklace I’timad had won from me during the poetry competition. I stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending.

“She gave it to you?” I asked blankly.

“I had to beg,” he replied. “And even then, she was not inclined to give it to me.”

“Then what did you do to win it back from her?” I asked, suspicious.

He looked away from me. There was, to my shock, a hint of pink in his cheeks.

“Idris?”

He muttered something so quietly I had to ask him to repeat it.