In his room, Karim howled. Somehow, Amira tore one hand free, then the other, skin peeling on the rope. She tried to rush past Ali, but he blocked her into a corner.

“Please, Ali. I can’t help it if I’m not a man. For God’s sake, just stop!”

He did stop. But only for a heartbeat—just long enough for Amira to realize that she should have endured the whipping. On her husband’s face, she saw cold, deadly rage. She saw murder.

She tried to shield her face as he came for her, but his fist smashed between her hands. She felt the cartilage in her nose snap. A blow to her cheek sent stars dancing through her brain. The room was very bright and distant. Something slammed into her abdomen, driving the breath from her, and she fell. A liquid warmth touched her thighs. I’ve wet myself, she thought with shame.

The last thing she saw was Ali’s foot floating toward her in dreamy slow motion, a child’s balloon on a string.

O

Cool pastel colors. A woman in white. A touch on the lips, rough, soft, cold. Ice in a cloth. It hurt, but the dampness was heaven. She was dying of thirst. “God be praised,” said the woman. “God be praised for saving Your Highness from such a terrible accident.”

Accident? Amira tried to say the word, but the sound that came out was unrecognizable. Her face felt like a melon rotted to bursting. Worse was the burning deep within her. Yet, somehow the pain seemed far away. Slowly, she under- stood. Hospital. Nurse. Drugs. She remembered why she was here. She slept.

When she woke, the pain was anything but far away. The nurse, a middle-aged Pakistani, brought a pill. Amira took it greedily.

“My son,” she said.

“Your what? Oh, your son. I’m sure he’ll be along soon enough, Highness. But we wouldn’t want him to see his mommy in her present mussed condition, would we?”

“No.”

“But your husband has been here so much that half the patients think he’s a doctor.”

The nurse gently inserted a thermometer beneath Amira’s tongue. “Such a charming man. In case you’re wondering, he’s not angry about your driving the car. Just look at all the flowers he’s brought.”

Half a dozen large bouquets crowded the room. Glancing at them, Amira realized that she was seeing with only her right eye. The left wouldn’t open. Driving the car.

“No, no, Highness. Mustn’t touch the dressings.” The nurse removed the thermometer, made a note on the chart, and rattled on in the maternal tone of her vocation. “You were a naughty girl, Highness—you could have died, God forbid. But the merciful God was on your side. It’s thanks to Him that Dr. Rochon showed up when he did.”

“Dr. Rochon? Philippe Rochon?”

“Exactly. He arrived the very day they brought you in, thank God, and Dr. Konyali asked him to perform the surgery. Not that Dr. Konyali couldn’t have done it himself, of course.”