“There will be a scar, not a bad one, here,” said Konyali, pointing to the stitches, “and your nose won’t have quite its old shape, but there’s no permanent damage.”

Philippe had come in and watched somberly while the bandages were cut away. Now he smiled and said, “If you’re not happy with your new nose, I can give you the name of a plastic surgeon. He can give you any nose you’d like.”

“Can he give me”—Amira struggled to think of a French movie star— “can he give me Catherine Deneuve’s nose?”

“Why not? He gave Catherine Deneuve hers.” “Would you like your veil, Highness?” asked Rabia.

“Because the bandages are gone? No, it’s pointless. These gentlemen know my face better than I do—which isn’t very well just now.”

“We’ll need to monitor the healing process, anyway, and of course, remove the stitches,” said Konyali. “No one can fault you for immodesty in these circumstances, Highness.”

“Thank you, doctor. How is His Highness, my father-in-law, Phili—Dr. Rochon?”

“Much better, I’m happy to say.”

“God be praised,” Konyali, Rabia, and Amira herself said.

“He really has no further need of me, so as soon as we have you on your feet again, I’m afraid I’ll be heading back to Paris.” Philippe said it casually, but his eyes were intense with unspoken communication.

“Well,” said Amira, “I hope we’ll have a chance to talk before you leave. I owe you—and Dr. Konyali—my life.”

“I’m sure we’ll have that chance, Highness.”

But the chance proved hard to find. Although Amira strengthened steadily over the following days, either Rabia or another nurse was always present; Ali had insisted on it. And often, Ali himself was there, so solicitous of Amira—and of Philippe when he appeared—that she wondered if it were possible that he really had changed, the way a person’s hair supposedly could turn white over- night after some terrifying experience. But no—no, it couldn’t be. There was that thing behind his eyes, watching her, almost laughing at her. No: she would be afraid of him forever.

The morning came when Dr. Konyali announced that she would be going home the next day. That afternoon, when Ali had left, Philippe came in to say good-bye. Oddly, at first, he seemed less interested in Amira than in chatting with Rabia.

“Dr. Konyali tells me you’re well traveled.”

“I, sir?” Rabia smiled with shy pride, “Well, Pakistan, of course, then Delhi, then England—Birmingham and London—then here.”

“How many languages do you speak?”

“Only my own, and a little English, and such Arabic as I am speaking now, sir.”

“Not French?”

“No, sir, not a word, I regret to admit.” She looked genuinely rueful at disappointing the famous physician.

“I know a little French,” said Amira, catching on, “but it’s been ages since I practiced it. Are you going to examine me, doctor? Ask your questions in French. Tell me where I go wrong.”

“Very well.”

“You don’t mind, Rabia?” “I mind, Highness?” “Bon”