‘My father-in-law trusted you and now he is ruined.’

‘Well then, he was a fool,’ said Akbar Khan, his words so matter-of-fact, his manner so calm, that they snatched the fight from Jia’s mouth. Violence was her only option. She lunged at him, her face contorted in anger and heartbreak, and found herself being held back by Zan. He had stepped in between her and his father. Her arms were flailing; she had lost control of herself.

The investigation, the court case, the jury’s deliberation, all of it had chipped away at her. She had held it together until now. She couldn’t do it any more. The shame of what her father had done, the embarrassment before her in-laws, their silence on the matter, had made it all worse. If they had blamed her, she could have fought them and argued for her father, but they hadn’t; they had simply looked broken. And now here she was, her shame leaving her ravenous for blood.

Taking her by the shoulders, Zan forced her out into the hallway. ‘Calm down,’ he said. Stoicism was rare in Pukhtuns, but Zan had mastered it. Controlled, disciplined and intelligent, his mix of British sensibility and Pukhtun courage had brought him respect in his father’s eyes. He had become the kind of son a Khan could be proud of. His sister, however, did not share the sentiment.

‘I hate him,’ she said. She spat the words like hot fat. ‘For what he has done to us and for what he has done to you.’

‘I know,’ he said. The immediacy of his response disarmed her.

She sat down on the floor and cried. The adrenaline that had been coursing through her had dissipated now, and she was exhausted. She wondered what was to become of them. Her head hurt at the thought of Zan in her father’s world. He had embarked on a path of pain, and there was nothing she could do to change that. She cried salty tears, for him and for herself. They dripped down her face and into the crevice of her mouth, their taste reminding her of the grazed knees and minor scrapes that had ended with childhood. There was shame and embarrassment today, but no one was going to prison. She realised that though her anger was justified, it was wasted, and that there were bigger battles to come. So she opened her eyes, wiped her face and got to her feet.

She was considering her next move, when her husband’s voice cut through the silence. It made its way through the thick walls and closed doors of the study and left her cold. He was shouting at her father, his words clear and hurtful, like sharp objects being ground into her wounds.