Lazy, languid days and long sleepy nights—these were the rhythms of Amira’s life in the palace. And how quickly she adapted to it—as if there had always been a masseuse to pamper and soothe her muscles, a fortune teller to entertain her with predictions and prognostications, a hair- dresser and cosmetician to carry out her daily beauty routines.

Life at home had been very comfortable, but this was beyond imaginable. It was, Amira decided, even decadent—a word she’d read but didn’t really understand until now. Any material thing she wanted was here. If it was lacking, all she had to do was ask, and it would be flown in. Food, clothing, electronic equipment, toys and amusements, they were all hers for the asking. When Ali went abroad, she went, too. She saw concerts, operas, and ballets, visiting all the legendary places she’d imagined as a young girl, enjoying the freedom of appearing unveiled. These trips were like a dream come true, yet when she returned to her luxurious cocoon in al-Remal, she often asked herself which was reality and which was the dream.

In the palace, she was rarely alone, but often lonely. The king’s various wives and concubines, their daughters and daughters-in-law, all these women were like a country within a country. Even Zeinab, who had a spacious villa of her own nearby, spent most of her days here.

At the heart of the women’s country was the queen, Faiza. It was she who had built the communal hammam, where Amira now reclined on a bench of marble. The room was large and airy with diamond-cut skylights, the walls covered with intricate mosaic tiles in jewel-like tones of blue and green. There were several tubs for bathing; along one wall, a battery of nozzles regularly released powerful bursts of steam. Throughout the day, an elaborate music system piped in the queen’s favorite “easy listening” music.

The hammam, Faiza often said, was an old custom worth keeping.

“Nonsense,” said Zeinab, who reclined on a neighboring bench; the hammam was simply another of Faiza’s devices for snooping and prying.

During the six months she’d been married, Amira had learned a great deal from Zeinab, who loved to chatter indiscriminately, and who was, even now, confirming the rumors of how her mother regulated the king’s philandering.

“Just watch,” Zeinab giggled, “and you’ll see. When my father becomes irritable, when he begins to lose his temper with no provocation at all, my mother says it’s a sign that he requires a new woman. So—that’s when she finds a new maid, someone young and pretty and virginal. She sends the young woman to the king’s bedroom on some pretext or other, and voila, all is well. When he becomes irritable again, she finds the maid a new position and sends another in her place. It’s brilliant, don’t you think?”