As soon as the Shaikha swept out of the room in a swirl of silk and gold, Aunt Najla began to cluck sympathetically. “Poor woman. She’s walking at the edge of a precipice, and everyone knows it.”

“But why, Auntie? She seems happy enough.”

“Happy? Don’t be ridiculous. She’s trying to put a good face on her situation—as any decent woman would—but if Allah in his wisdom sends a daughter instead of a son, well, then it’s certain there will be a third wife, as everyone knows.”

Of course. Though the Shaikha’s fair complexion and flaming hair were considered uncommonly beautiful here, she had produced, in quick succession, four daughters—much to the delight of the oil minister’s first wife, who had borne him three sons. If there were to be yet a third wife, poor Nazli would certainly lose face and social standing.

As the Shaikha swept into the room once more, she held out her arm, displaying a gold Patek-Philippe watch studded with diamonds and emeralds. “Isn’t it lovely?”

“Breathtaking,” Najla agreed. “And it suits you so well.” “It’s beautiful,” Amira chimed in.

“And see what else my dear husband brought home,” Nazli said, indicating a stack of dinner plates being carried by a servant. “Limoges, service for fifty. In the pattern I had admired when we visited France on our honey- moon. He remembered … seven years and he remembered,” she said, her voice wistful and tender.

Najla shot her niece a meaningful look, even as she went on to compliment the oil minister’s taste and his thoughtfulness. “May Allah grant you a son,” she murmured under her breath.

O

Since Omar had announced his intention to lunch with a business acquaintance, the women of the house dined lightly: hummus with pita bread, a selection of cheeses and olives, a salad garnished with mint and lemon and olive oil, a bit of leftover kibbe.

As soon as the meal was finished, preparations for the next began. With her aunt standing by to supervise and instruct, Amira rinsed the lamb chunks. “Put them in the bottom of the pot,” Aunt Najla instructed. “No, not that one, the big one. Good. Now get the rosemary leaves and two cinnamon sticks.”

“I know,” Amira said, as she quickly added some of the sweet spice called hab hale, pepper, a piece of mistika, and a piece of the lichen called shaiba. All this was covered with cold water and set on the big English stove to simmer. Two hours later, after her afternoon nap, Amira removed the lamb from the pot, strained the stock, and added water, to make eight cups. She measured two cups of rice into the stock and set the pot back on the stove.

“Cook it slowly now,” Aunt Najla admonished. “About forty-five minutes or so. You don’t want the rice to stick.”