At last, she looked at me. “I know that it is a gift with much attached to it,” she said. “And it may be that the monarchy does not survive me at all. But it’s a wealthy estate with a good income. It will allow you to take care of your family without others questioning why such money must come from the crown. More importantly, it is a royal wedding gift—and those cannot be refused.”

My eyes remained wide. It was too much, I wanted to say. More than I had ever wanted or asked for.

“Say ‘thank you,’ Amani,” Maram said.

I swallowed around a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I said, and reached for her hand. “I will endeavor to be worthy of such a gift.”

She smiled. “You already are.”

Maram and I walked a little longer, but eventually she departed to a war cabinet meeting and I made my way to my quarters. The page at the door cleared his throat, and I paused.

“Visitors, sayidati,” he said. “They would not agree to wait elsewhere.”

I sighed and nodded. “Thank you. I will call if I have need.”

The doors opened and I felt my world tilt on its axis. My fingertips went numb. I stumbled through the doorway with a cry and threw my arms around my mother. She was shaking and she was thinner, but she was here, alive, holding me.

“Yabnati,” she murmured, and drew back. “Look at you.”

A hand tapped my shoulder and there, too, were my brothers. I burst into tears. They were both thinner than I remembered, and Husnain’s barely there beard had grown out in full in the mountains. Husnain, too, now had a few more inches on me.

“Oh no,” Husnain said, and drew me into his arms. “There’s no need for that.”

“Be quiet,” I said through my tears. “I will decide what I have a need of. Where is Baba?”

Husnain turned me bodily, and my father took me into his arms and pressed a kiss into my hair.

“You have been hard at work,” he said softly.

“I was so worried you wouldn’t be here in time,” I said.

“Never,” he said, “would we have missed your wedding day.”

32

With my family safe and in residence at last, plans for the wedding coalesced. It would be a true Kushaila wedding, such that M’Gaadir had not seen in years. I’d insisted on keeping it as small and private as possible—there was no version of myself, I thought, that would submit this private moment to public scrutiny. The crown—for it was not just Maram with which I had to contend, but various makhzen and members of her diwan—and I came to an agreement: one journalist with a single probe who was to be present at the main ceremony, but none of the private family affairs before and after.