Suddenly, alone in her room, Amira burst out laughing. Had it come to this? Amira Rashad, with all her education, with her pretensions to Parisian sophistication, Amira Rashad the would-be psychologist, scheming like a desert Bedouin to enchain her husband by superstition and witchcraft! She laughed until the tears came. If only there were someone to share the joke!

There was no one, of course; certainly not her in-laws. To the royal family, a wife who produced only one child was no laughing matter. When Amira had borne Karim, Ali’s mother and sisters, previously so cool and standoffish, had almost overwhelmed her with their approval and solicitousness. The first few months of her son’s life brought the closest thing to happiness she had known in the palace. Then the respite was over. Soon, hardly a day went by without some seemingly casual remark about her next child. Then came the pointed questions and expressions of concern about her health. Finally, not long after Karim’s first birthday, Faiza announced that she had summoned the doctor to examine Amira.

Protests were no good—Um Ahmad was in her most regal mood. Soon, Amira found herself wearing her veil and little else, being probed and questioned by the same doctor who had failed to help Jihan in her crisis. For once, she was grateful for the veil.

“You are in very good health, Princess, praise God,” the man informed her when she was dressed. “I see no reason, God willing, that you should not have many children.”

“You give me good news. God is indeed compassionate.”

“Indeed.” The doctor toyed with his stethoscope. He looked uncomfortable. “Is there something else? Something wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing at all.” He tucked the stethoscope away. “Forgive me, Highness, but in order to be of most value to you, I need to ask some rather personal questions. In strictest confidence, of course.”

“Go ahead.”

“I know that you have visited Europe several times, with your husband, of course, and I must ask—please don’t take offense—if you are taking one of the so-called birth control medications.”

“No.”

“I thought not. Forgive my asking. I would be remiss if I didn’t. It’s not unheard of, you know, especially among women who have gone abroad. God knows why.”

“Of course.”

The doctor nodded. “Only one more question, Highness. Again forgive me—you understand. But is everything … as it should be between you and your husband?”

Beneath the veil Amira’s skin burned. She longed to tell someone, anyone— even this servile little man—that nothing was as it should be. But she couldn’t. The shame was too great. “Everything is fine,” she said. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” The doctor brightened and picked up his bag. “It hasn’t really been that long, you know, Highness, although certainly I understand your eager- ness to have more children. As I said, you’re healthy. Be patient, and God willing, you will be rewarded.”