He was gone before she could say good-bye. Konyali followed after giving brief instructions to Rabia. Then, suddenly, Ali was there. Rabia stood and moved toward the door.

“No, stay, Rabia, it’s all right.”

The nurse looked at her oddly. “I’ll be just down the hall, Highness. Please, Highness sir, only a few minutes. The doctor requests it.” “Of course.”

As the door closed behind Rabia, Ali stepped forward. Amira fought an impulse to scream. Then her husband did the most astonishing thing: he fell to his knees beside the bed and kissed her fingertips.

“Thank God! Thank God for delivering you! It’s my fault. I would never have forgiven myself. If I’d been a proper husband, you’d never have done such a crazy thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why, the accident, of course. You should see the car.” Had he gone mad? Had she?

“No car.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t in a car.”

He patted her hand. “I shouldn’t have come so soon. Rest, my dear. I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise you, things will be different from now on. Very different.”

Was it some kind of extreme guilt reaction? Had he blanked out the truth? Did he simply lack courage to admit what he had done? Or was it something else?

He smiled at her from the door. And there—just there, behind his dark eyes—something flickered, glinting like other eyes entirely, the eyes of an animal in the night. Then it was gone. But she had seen it—and it had seen her.

She was too weak for more fear. None of it made sense, anyway. She was asleep within seconds of Rabia’s return.

O

For two days, Amira hardly moved. She was too weak and in too much pain. On the third morning, Rabia helped her sit up on the edge of the bed, and late that afternoon, she took a few steps, feeling like a very old woman or a very young child. That same day, Dr. Konyali removed most of the bandages from her face, and after considerable foot-dragging, Rabia finally produced a mirror.

Amira gasped when she saw her reflection. Her face, still swollen, was virtually a single bruise, which had turned a sickly yellowish purple. Adhesive tape still hid her nose. A black ladder of stitches crawled down her forehead from the hairline. Her left eye was almost fully open but grotesquely bloodshot.

“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.”