Strange, Amira thought, as she watched the fashion show that had been created for her alone. Gres was a name she had often read in magazines, a world apart from al-Remal. Now that world had come here, to her, and all because she was marrying Ali al-Rashad. And this was just the beginning. Perhaps marriage would be more than just an escape from her father’s house. Perhaps it could be wonderful, after all, just as poor Laila had once imagined. Amira studied the gowns thoughtfully, nodding dutifully as her aunts made comments on this one and that. When she pointed to the simplest of all—a princess style in creamy white silk, its bodice delicately embroidered with seed pearls—the designer murmured her approval. “A fine choice, ma’mselle—my personal favorite.”

Next, the models began showing selections for Amira’s trousseau: fashionable suits, stylish dresses, and chic, daring evening gowns. Though she expected to be veiled and covered for the rest of her life, Amira would wear these beautiful things for her husband. Her prince.

“The white linen suit,” she murmured, as a tall, willowy model paraded before her. The designer’s assistant noted her choice.

“That dress,” Amira said, indicating a flame-colored silk, “and the emerald green gown.”

“The Empire style will suit you, ma’mselle,” the designer said. “I think you might also like the white strapless gown that’s coming out next.” “I’m sure it’s lovely,” Amira said, “but I don’t think I need any more gowns.”

The designer laughed. “Your fiancé disagrees, ma’mselle. He feels you should choose at least a dozen gowns. And suits and dresses, as well.”

I already have so much, Amira thought, but not wanting to offend either Madame Gres or Prince Ali, she complied.

When the fashion show was over, she thanked the designer for bringing such lovely things and then adjourned to her bedroom with two fitters. As an accommodation to the royal house of al-Remal, the fitting process, which was normally complicated and time-consuming, would be accelerated.

As the women took her measurements, Amira gazed at the ever-growing trousseau that spilled out of her closet and filled every available surface: hand- made Italian shoes in a rainbow of colors, silk lingerie from Hong Kong, most pieces in virginal white but a few nightgowns in soft shades of apricot and peach; richly embroidered sheets and pillowcases of Egyptian cotton, ordered by her aunts so Amira would not go to her husband’s house empty-handed. Small chance of that, she thought, not with the abundance of lavish wedding gifts accumulating in the library—all destined to be part of her new life as a married woman.