How curious a woman’s life was, Amira reflected. Ever since Jihan died, she might as well have been invisible in this house; now it was as if the world revolved around her. It was a feeling she didn’t fully trust. Laila had had such a moment— and Jihan, too. Perhaps most of the women of al-Remal had felt like this when they were wed. And then, they had become invisible once again.

Perhaps that wouldn’t happen to her, Amira thought hopefully. Her prince had been educated in Switzerland and England. He couldn’t be like her father or the man Laila had married. Perhaps he would be like the men in the novels she read, men who adored their wives—and treasured them in ways she’d not yet seen in al-Remal.

O

By the time the Gres entourage left, it was time to dress for tea. Not just any tea—for today, Amira’s aunts would receive Prince Ali’s mother and sisters. Today, Amira would meet her in-laws for the first time.

She showered hastily, then scrubbed her face with a rough washcloth, bringing a smudge of color to her cheeks. Carefully, she brushed her thick, dark hair to a glossy sheen. Should she wear it loose, in a flattering cascade of waves that reached her shoulders? Or pulled back in a more modest but less flattering chignon?

She could almost hear one of Aunt Najla’s favorite sayings: “Eat what you please but wear what pleases others.” Amira pinned her hair back and chose a dress that would surely please her aunts: a demure navy blue silk with a crisp white collar. I look like a schoolgirl, she thought. That should please my family—and perhaps Ali’s, too.

O

Faiza al-Rashad, known as Um Ahmad in the royal court, swept into the Badir house as if she owned it. Amira’s aunts fluttered around the great lady, murmuring politenesses as they bowed respectfully before her.

With great deference, the king’s ranking wife, followed by her two daughters, Munira and Zeinab, was shown into the large salon. A servant stood by as she shed her veil and robe, revealing a gray silk Lanvin suit. She was seated in the largest, most comfortable armchair, a footstool placed beneath her Ferragamo-shod feet.

A moment later, Amira presented herself to Faiza. “God’s peace be with you, honored Mother,” she said, lowering her eyes decorously as she kissed the older woman’s hand.

“And with you, my child.” Faiza tilted Amira’s face upward and studied it for a long moment. She nodded, as if satisfied with what she saw.