On her walls were paintings that, as a girl, she had admired in Miss Vanderbeek’s books. True, most of them were abstract, since the royal family officially adhered to the belief that the Koran prohibited artistic representations of the human body or other natural scenes, but they were beautiful, and she could lose herself in them for hours. In a more capricious mood, she could express a desire to update her wardrobe, and the next day Pierre Cardin or Saint-Laurent or Givenchy would arrive with a string of models to stage a private fashion show.

Whatever Ali’s faults, he was generous, she had to admit. On their first anniversary, he had summoned her to the living room in the men’s section. Some of his kinsmen were there, as were two men in western suits whom Ali introduced as representatives of Harry Winston. The men opened a dozen cases in which diamonds blazed against black velvet.

“Take your pick,” Ali told her expansively.

It was in the aftermath of the oil embargo, and money was gushing into al Remal in unbelievable quantities, but Amira disliked some of the self indulgence that came with it. She pointed to a lovely little bracelet that would accentuate her hands nicely. In a world where faces, legs, and arms were kept hidden, hands were a major feature of a woman’s beauty, and Amira was rather vain of hers.

Ali looked irritated. “Is that a set?” he asked, indicating a magnificent necklace, bracelet, and earrings.

“Yes, Your Highness,” one of the Winston men said. “She’ll take that—and the little bracelet, too, of course.”

Amira did not have to feign being overwhelmed. Like all Remali women, who in the event of divorce might be left with little but their jewelry, she had an expert knowledge of its value; the price of the diamonds her husband had chosen would approach a million American dollars.

On Karim’s first birthday, Ali’s gift to the mother of his son was equally impressive: a magnificent emerald said to have belonged to a maharajah. This time, he made the presentation in private. Had one of his older brothers objected to the conspicuousness of the diamond showing? Amira took the chance to ask, “Why do you give me such wonderful gifts, my husband? Surely, I’m undeserving.”

“My wife should have fine things,” he said, as if it were self-evident.

“But … so much.” She trailed off. It was not her right to expect some word of love, she told herself. Ali was not that kind of man. Still, it hurt to be treated as if she were only a prized servant, richly and frequently rewarded but hardly loved. For a moment, she saw Philippe’s smiling eyes.