When Laila’s crime came to light, Malik had wanted to step forward. “The sin is mine, too,” he said. “Why should I escape when her life is lost? We loved together; it’s just that we die together.”

But through Amira, Laila had forbade him to do so. “Giving up your life won’t save mine. It would be a useless sacrifice. Worse, it would make our child an orphan. I won’t allow it.”

All those terrible weeks Laila languished in al-Masagin, Malik paced and roared, like a caged animal. “I can’t let this happen, Amira. What kind of man just stands by when the woman he loves is in danger?”

“A wise man, in this case,” Amira said, trying to persuade her brother that self-preservation did not equal cowardice. “How would it help Laila if you com- mitted suicide?”

And still Malik refused to accept what seemed inevitable, hatching one wild scheme after another and trying them out on his cousin and best friend, Farid. Could the judges be bribed?

“Not for the sums you could raise,” Farid replied. “And while no one would be insulted by the offer of a truly princely sum, the risks in proposing an inadequate bribe would be grave, Cousin.”

Malik yielded to his cousin’s judgment. Within the Badir family, it was generally assumed that Farid, in spite of his fondness for jokes and play, had inherited the intellectual gifts of his father, Tarik, an eminent mathematician. So, it was Farid who kept Malik firmly anchored in reality after the trial and the foregone verdict, when all he could think of was an assault on the prison, a rush for the airport, escape in a commandeered private jet.

Though he had a few friends loyal enough—or crazy enough—to join him in such a venture, Farid pointed out that not one of them was a pilot. And though pilots could be found who would do many dangerous things for money, none would risk being shot down by the Royal Remali Air Force for protecting an adulteress.

In the end, it had all come down to this moment in the desert moonlight, gold tinkling palely yellow from Malik’s hand into Um Salih’s.

“Thank you, sir. A thousand blessings.” The old midwife touched her fore- head in a gesture of respect.

Amira stifled a smile as she recalled how the old woman had badgered and insulted her in the prison. Now that there was no need to play a part for the guards, Um Salih was once again a humble peasant, in the presence of wealth and power.

Malik responded with equal courtesy as he went over the arrangements he’d made for his child. “The wet nurse you’ve chosen. She’s healthy?” “Oh, yes, sir, indeed she is. My niece, Salima.”

“A true niece or an invented one?” Amira asked mischievously, recalling the part she had just played.