Amira exhaled a sigh of relief.

Ali held out his hand. Obediently and with something very much like gratitude—after all, he could have been old and like Laila’s husband—she took it. He led her into the bedroom, which was dominated by a majestic Chinese bed, hand-carved and decorated in gold. Silently, Amira tried to take in the lavishness of her new home. “Champagne?”

She was startled. Amira wasn’t a religious fanatic, and she knew that plenty of people drank in al-Remal despite the strict laws against it. But she had never tasted alcohol herself.

Ali handed her a crystal tulip filled with bubbling gold. He smiled. “Relax, my dear. It won’t hurt you. Champagne’s not even liquor. It’s liquid happiness.”

Amira sipped. Her mouth tingled, an interesting sensation.

Still smiling, and in the same pleasant tone, Ali said: “Take off your clothes.” Amira froze. This, of course, was expected—but not so suddenly. She knew what she had learned from her aunts, learned all her life, in fact: that, no matter what her husband wanted, she must do it. Not just tonight, but always.

Otherwise, she could be sent back to her father’s house in disgrace. To be ruled by her aunts. To become one of them herself in time. She shuddered at the thought, and Ali, mistaking the cause, laughed. “Is it so terrible to be alone with me? You’re my wife, after all.”

Blushing, Amira retreated to the marble bathroom. She removed her bridal gown, the layers of silk underwear. When she reached the flimsy teddy, about which there had been much ribald comment at the women’s celebration, she stopped.

She didn’t want to make her husband angry, but she couldn’t stand naked before him, she just couldn’t. Timidly, she edged back into the bedroom, her bare feet sinking in the luxurious white carpet.

He didn’t seem angry or even annoyed as he admired her once again, almost as if she were an artwork.

“You have a lovely body,” he said, “lean and supple and strong … like a true thoroughbred.”

Amira smiled her appreciation of the compliment. Since reaching womanhood, she often worried that she’d grown too tall, that her hips hadn’t filled out enough, that she lacked the voluptuous fleshiness that so many Remali men seemed to prefer. Yet, from the way he spoke, it was clear Ali was pleased with her.

He led her to the bed and began stroking her, as if she were a kitten. Basking in the warmth of his approval, Amira allowed herself the pleasure of his touch. How lovely it was, she thought, to be petted and caressed.

As Ali brushed her breasts with his fingertips, the champagne-tingle spread throughout her body. So this is what it was all about, the whispering and laughing. This warm fluttering, this weightlessness, this was what had been forbidden.