“Yes, Father, I do give thanks to Allah. And to you,” she added with sincerity, knowing that it was in Omar’s power to marry her to anyone. Yet, he had chosen for her a prince, well known and well loved. Everyone knew of Prince Ali. He was a pilot, a hero of al-Remal. He flew the kingdom’s newest planes, he soared in the skies like a falcon. Life with him would have to be better than life at home—wouldn’t it?

Part Four

Part

Four

12. Ali

Ali

“The foreign dressmakers are here,” Bahia announced stolidly—as if a visit from the French couturiere Madame Gres were an everyday occurrence. “Your aunts wish you to come down at once.”

Amira snapped shut her copy of Madame Bovary and looked imploringly at Miss Vanderbeek. “We’ll have to stop now. I don’t really want to, but … well, you know …”

“I do know,” the Dutch woman said with a smile. “Now that you have your diploma, French literature just can’t compete with French couture.”

“But that’s not so,” Amira protested. “I want to read everything, to under- stand about people who are different from people here in al-Remal. I want to know what they think and how they feel. But there’s been so little time, what with shopping and visits and getting ready for the wedding.” Then, realizing she was being teased, she smiled, too. “You do understand.”

Miss Vanderbeek nodded. “In truth, you don’t really need me anymore, Amira. You’re as fluent in French as I am, and your English is quite good, too. You have your reading lists—and the intelligence you were born with, ma shallah. There’s not much more I can teach you. If you were going on to university …” She trailed off, for she had broached this subject before, urging her pupil to continue her studies, if only by correspondence.

“I want to, I truly do, but I can’t make that decision without my husband’s consent.”

“I know,” Miss Vanderbeek sighed. “I know.” There was a long moment of silence.

“I suppose we must be saying good-bye, if not today, then very soon …”

Amira’s eyes filled with tears. For so long, the beautiful blond nanny had been her window into the world outside al-Remal, the one who described its colors and textures and smells. She was the one who pushed Amira to read beyond the printed words, to ask questions and not always be satisfied with easy answers. “I don’t want to say good-bye,” Amira said, her voice catching in her throat.

“I know.”

“I wish … oh, I wish you could come to live with me in the palace.” “Perhaps one day I’ll come to teach your children.”