“I know. Tell me about her.” “Her name is Genevieve.”

“A beautiful name.”

“Not as beautiful as she is,” Malik said, with a tenderness that convinced Amira her brother was truly in love.

“Naturally. It goes without saying that you would marry a beautiful woman.”

“It’s not like that, Amira. It’s not just the way she looks. She’s been good for me. She makes me believe that life is good. And she makes me laugh. It’s been such a long time …”

“I know.”

“And she’s said she would consider converting to Islam … after she learns more about it, of course.”

“And what does she do, this perfect woman?” Amira teased.

There was a brief hesitation. “She’s a singer. A nightclub singer.”

“Ah.” “You may as well know it all. She’s a bit older than I am. Not much. Just a few years.”

Some of this, they agreed, could be passed along more or less unabridged to Omar. Some—Genevieve’s age, for example—need not be reported with perfect accuracy. Some, such as her religious views, could be cast in a positive light. And some—her profession, especially—ought not to be mentioned at all. When Amira hung up, she was as nervous as a bird. She couldn’t seem to focus on any single thought. Malik was coming this weekend. Malik and Genevieve. Tabriz was a month away. Philippe. Malik. Omar. Ali.

She paced in her room. The palace was a prison. She couldn’t even walk in the garden, closed to women this morning, a ceremony of some kind. Malik. Philippe. Tabriz.

She buzzed the chamberlain on the intercom. “Send a car for me.” “Yes, Highness.”

Ten minutes later, Jabr was holding the door of a Silver Dawn. “Peace be with you.”

“And with you, peace.”

“Morning of goodness, Highness.” “Morning of light, Jabr.”

It felt good to exchange the formal greetings. The world might be blowing away, but the old words were like small, tough roots that no wind could dislodge.

“To where, Highness?”

“My cousin’s,” said Amira, for the benefit of the listening doorman.

Once behind the wheel, Jabr glanced in the mirror. “Which cousin, Highness?”

“No cousin. Drive somewhere. The desert. I need to think.”

His reflected eyes met hers, concerned. “The hills will be better for thinking, Highness. The desert begins to be hot.”

“The hills, then.”

The place was a shaded notch in a high ridge. A thousand feet below, the desert glared like an endless, motionless sea, but here the air was cool. In sheltered places, tiny flowers bloomed. How long had they waited, Amira wondered, for the rain to bring them from the dust? How long would they wait again?