With her recovery, the shielding veil of women gradually lifted. That was fine with Amira. She was ready for a little aloneness, a little privacy, and she was weary of the thing that hung in the air, unspoken but as pervasive as the stench of a snuffed candle, among her comforters: she was an object of pity to them.

After all, she was now barren, a female without purpose or future, a has-been at twenty-two. In a way, in the view of the other women, a part of her had died that night, and they reacted as people do to death, with secret gratitude that it had struck someone else.

Ali had not approached her sexually. She was not sure what she would do if he did. She might claim debility, or she might simply refuse and see how thick or thin was the veneer of kindness with which he had disguised him- self. But perhaps he would leave her alone for a long time, or even forever. Perhaps he sensed the revulsion his touch caused in her. Or perhaps he was himself repelled by her barrenness.

A few days ago, she had overheard Faiza commenting that Ali would, of course, take another wife. And of course, he would. No one would blame him; in fact, many would fault him if he did not.

Again, it didn’t matter. She was waiting for deliverance, nothing else, in whatever form it might take.

She sent for a driver to take her to the new house. In minutes, a servant told her the car was ready. That was one of the positives about the allegedly new Ali: she had freedom to come and go almost as she pleased.

In the few steps between the palace’s family entrance and the cocoon of the waiting Rolls, Amira felt the chill of the Remali winter. The temperature had dropped into the fifties; tonight, water might freeze. She hoped that the weather would moderate in time for Philippe’s arrival.

The driver, a large, fierce-looking man with a pockmarked face, hurried to help her. Amira knew that, like all his colleagues at the palace, he was an expert in defensive combat and the use of small arms, a variety of which nested near at hand under the front seat.

“God’s peace, Highness.” “God’s peace, Jabr.”

“Shall I turn up the heater?” “No, it’s perfect.”

As the luxurious car purred from the palace grounds into the unusually busy city streets, the big man suddenly asked with boyish excitement, “Has Your Highness seen the tents?”

“What tents?”

“Out toward the airport, Highness. The desert people have come in for the feast.”

“Show me,” she said on a whim.