Her mother was waiting for her outside the bathroom, clutching Jia’s shawl. She wrapped the soft material around her daughter’s shoulders and brought it up to her head, covering the loose hair the way she used to do when Jia was a teenager. The duplicitous world of men expected women to be draped in honour. ‘This looks like the kind of thing Akbar Khan would choose,’ she said, her voice faltering at the name of her husband.

‘He sent it to me,’ said Jia. ‘I never understood why he gave us gifts on Father’s Day.’

‘Your father, always a gentle soul,’ her mother replied, her voice quieter than usual. ‘Few people know that about him. But, then, he lived every day for his children…’ Her voice trailed off and Jia noticed her hands were shaking. She put her arms around her mother as Sanam Khan had done to her so many times throughout her childhood. She found herself swelling with tenderness and sadness in equal measure.

‘It’s OK, Mama, I’m here now,’ she whispered. She helped her mother down the stairs, Sanam Khan leaning heavily on her daughter. Jia reached for the bannister; the wedding flowers that were wrapped around it crumpled under her touch.

Sanam Khan took each step carefully, holding her daughter tight, afraid of what letting go would mean. Akbar Khan had left the house abruptly after the party ended. In his youth, he would have taken the stairs two by two to tell her he was leaving, but his knees weren’t what they used to be and so he had called up to her, saying he’d be back soon. But he wasn’t, and instead Bazigh Khan was here, his face solemn, his eyes pitch black. This house had seen some dark days and her God had demanded His dues. Something told her that there was worse still to come.

***

Standing by the fireplace, watching the embers rise and fall, Jia listened to Bazigh Khan, his words chilling her to the bone. She pulled her chador tight around her shoulders and up across the nape of her neck to warm herself. ‘Tell me again, from the beginning, Lala,’ she said.

But Bazigh Khan wasn’t prepared to repeat the story so soon. ‘The words almost took my life the first time they left my lips,’ he whispered. He had been standing since he arrived at the house. His legs were getting heavy but he dared not sit for fear of not rising again.

‘Baba, sit down,’ said Idris to his father.