“It was my brother’s,” he said, taking my hand. “Come on, my family is waiting.”

“Waiting?” But he didn’t stop to explain, and drew me away from the tent. Guards closed in around us, but even through all the noise of the larger camp, I could hear his family and understanding dawned on me. I could hear the cry of mizmaar horns, a dozen hands striking drums, and the voices of ‘Issawa singers, celebrating the marriage. A woman’s ululating cry broke out over the music.

The Salihi standard, a maned lion’s head with a palm tree cresting over it on a green background, flew from a pennant over the tent, whipping in the breeze. It felt as if there were a border around the Salihis and the moment we crossed over something changed. The voices got louder and the crowd parted when they saw us.

My hand tightened around his. I felt, strangely, as if I’d come home. The music beat in time with my heart, and the cries of his family members were in a language I understood, though I couldn’t respond or demonstrate joy or understanding. The silver capsules of rosewater glinted in the sunlight as the women flicked water at us, blessing us. Naima, Idris’s eldest aunt, waited for us at the entrance to the tent, sitting on an ornate cushioned chair.

“Khaltou,” Idris said, and kissed the back of her hand. She smiled at him. I remembered the last time we’d talked—that she’d spoken to me as Maram. She eyed me, her eyes still as sharp as any bird, then came to her feet.

“You will have to kneel,” Idris whispered.

“What?” Maram would not have, ever.

“Do it,” he urged.

The music hadn’t stopped, but I could feel the eyes of his family on me. If this were truly my wedding feast, I—Amani—wouldn’t have hesitated. There was no shame in kneeling to those older than you, to those who commanded and demanded respect. But Maram would chafe at it.

“You will have to help me get up,” I hissed at him. “This dress is heavy.”

I sank to my knees slowly and waited. A serving girl came forward, a veil of sheer gold cloth draped over her arms.

“This belonged to my niece, I’timad,” she said in heavily accented Vathekaar. I froze when she mentioned Idris’s mother. “And to my sister, Hijjou, before her. They had long and happy marriages. May you have the same.”

My breath caught in my throat. It was not a Kushaila custom—likely something more regional, but the symbolism of it wasn’t lost on me. She had no reason to accept me—Maram—into her family. To acknowledge me enthusiastically. But she had. I remained perfectly still as she pinned the veil to the open space behind the crown in my hair and draped it over my shoulders.