He remembered his Quran teacher telling him that believers are mirrors for each other, silently reflecting back their truth. Unwittingly, Jia Khan’s mirror cast light on the weaknesses of others. The strong among them took note; the weak, no doubt, blamed her for their own inadequacies. It was something he had observed at the wedding, but he realised now that she had always had this presence about her. She was clever and unflinching, and he saw in her a hierarchy of destructive potential and his place within it. Maybe it had seemed more pronounced tonight because she no longer cared about anything in this world – Zan’s death had seen to that – or maybe it was just the way she was made, only he hadn’t recognised it before. Whatever it was, Idris knew that if he could see it, then so could everyone else. There was no honour among thieves; the pack needed someone they feared to keep them in line. Idris wondered if Jia Khan could accept who she was before it was too late, and in so doing save the family before its demands destroyed her.

The call for Fajr interrupted his thoughts. It was followed by silence, and each person playing their part. Sitting in an armchair by the window, Sanam Khan wiped her tears with her shawl. She was heartbroken at her husband’s death. The thought that she might be mourning her child as well as her husband skirted her mind, and she resolved only to mourn when Benyamin returned home.

‘We must proceed carefully or face financial ruin,’ Bazigh Khan warned. He was not a slow-hardened man; it was the heavy hammer of a single experience that had shaped him, and his words were often blunt. In other families, this was not the time to mention business and money, but they were not like other families, and Jia understood his reasons well. Her uncle was readying himself for war. But the warning sufficed; the rest of that discussion could wait. Today, he would speak of his brother.

‘Akbar Khan was a great man, a good man, one who knew that to steal was more honourable than to spread one’s hands before another,’ he said. ‘He chose to face the wrath of God rather than bow to a master. And on this day, my sister, as he stands before his Lord, no curtain between them and no earthly body, I pray for great mercy on him, as he showed mercy to so many of us.’

It was customary to talk of the dead in this way, to scoop out memories and feast on them for three days, no more, no less. It was how the mourners healed. The coming days would be full of this.