‘How can I sit in the warmth while Akbar Khan lies on a cold slab?’ he said. He took a deep breath, letting the alien feelings that ran through him settle. He knew that other people, normal people, called them guilt and fear. But he had not been like everyone else for such a long time. He was Bazigh Khan, defender of the Khan: his job was to stand between death and his brother and snatch him back from the heavenly farishtay when they came, but he had failed. He had left his brother’s side and his duties early, and the angel of death had taken Akbar Khan.

He’d only gone because Akbar had pressed him. ‘The Khan should be guarded day and night. It is one of the unwritten rules of the family,’ he had reminded his brother. But shortly after, when Akbar Khan received the call about Benyamin, he’d ignored protocol and chosen to travel alone, telling his guards to meet him at the place where they’d heard Benyamin was being held.

When he didn’t arrive, the guards went looking for him. It didn’t take them long: a black Bentley with private plates is hard to miss on a winding country road. Less than two hours after saying goodnight to his brother, Bazigh Khan got a call telling him the Khan was dead.

‘It was not like him to take such a risk,’ said Bazigh Khan, shaking his head.

The moon had been full and fat that night, casting its light like little drops of honey on the leaves that filled out the lush hills and valleys. The guards had found the car parked in the layby of a nearby beauty spot, Akbar Khan beside it, still wearing the black shervani Maria had picked out for him for the wedding reception. A grey blanket had been draped over him, as if to stop him feeling the chill. The men had moved the blanket to find his face pressed deep into the soft brown mud, five bullets in the back of his head. He had been shot at close range. The black brocade hid the bloodstains well, and from a distance he looked like an old man who, feeling tired, had taken a nap next to his car after a picnic. The men who found him had fallen to their knees and wept like children at their father’s grave. They had lost their protector, and who now would answer to God on their behalf?

Idris stood by his father’s side, one hand on his shoulder. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror – his clothes crumpled, the red lines of sleep still evident in his eyes. This night had aged him. Standing by the window, his cousin Jia, however, looked fresher than her middle years. Her hair covered, her face washed clean, she seemed to have shed some of her burdens.