“You contradict your own husband?” “No, I—”

“This is none of your business, young woman. Go back to your place!” She retreated toward the kitchen, as did the other women who had filtered out to see what the trouble was. They never made it there, for just at that moment, Farid pushed open the front door and called for God’s blessings on Malik and his bride.

Genevieve had tried, thought Amira, she had really tried. She wore an abeyya and veil and walked behind Malik like a good wife. But rather than being shapeless and concealing, the abeyya had too much of Paris about it, showing the curves of her body, and from beneath the edge of the veil a lock of dark blond hair had slipped, as brazen a provocation as a bare arm. If that were not enough, she had the terrible habit of European women, looking frankly and directly at the faces of the men in the room instead of demurely lowering her eyes. Given what had just been said, it was the worst thing she could do.

Omar needed only an instant to make his decision. “What is this woman that you bring into my house?” he demanded.

“Father, this is my wife,” answered Malik. Amira could tell that he already knew the situation was hopeless, though not why. Farid had gone ashen. Genevieve, who obviously did not understand Arabic, merely looked nonplussed. “Tell me the truth,” said Omar, his voice shaking. “Does your wife sing in front of men, in a place where men go to drink alcohol?”

Malik glanced at Amira. What had gone wrong? She shook her head, unable to help.

“Yes,” Malik told his father. “In France.”

“Then let her be your wife in France. She is no one’s wife here—not in al-Remal, and not in this house.”

Malik’s eyes swept the room—did they linger for a split second on Ali? “Someone has poisoned your thoughts, Father.” His voice was shaking, too. “Yes, and it is you. You have neglected a son’s duty, you have lied to me, you have dishonored me and all your family. Yet, you are my son, and so I give you a choice: Send that woman away and remain my son, or leave with her and never return.”

There was not a drop of blood in either man’s face. Malik spoke with deadly quietness: “God is One, and my wife is my wife everywhere. If we are not welcome here, you need not order us to leave, or fear that we will ever return. Good-bye, Father.”

With that, he turned and guided Genevieve out the door. Farid stared wildly around the room for a moment before following. Amira could not believe what was happening. “No!” she screamed, and although someone shouted behind her, she ran after her brother.