Miss Smith fanned herself with a paperback book. “How thrilling, Mrs. Emerson! I fear I would have succumbed to the harsh desert had I been forced to follow your steadfast resolve. I do hope I am not being presumptuous when I offer you this small token of my admiration.” She thrust the book across the table. “It is my latest novel, although it pales in comparison to your adventures. Please accept it with my greatest gratitude.”

I had no choice but to take the book from her hand. The cover art had the familiar depiction of the fair-skinned sheikh gazing at a buxom ingenue in the throes of a swoon, and was entitled The Shadow of the Sheikh. I examined it with minimal interest until I saw a photograph of Miss Smith on the back cover. She appeared younger, as authors often do in their publicity photographs, but her likeness was unmistakable. As my Readers are well aware, I have a suspicious nature and had idly considered the possibility that she was an imposter. She was not. I reminded myself to tell Daoud that he was in no circumstance to pounce upon her should he see her in the hallway. “Pounce” was not the most accurate word to describe his prospective reaction; his height and bulkiness would most likely result in a move more befitting a wrestler. It would not bode well for Miss Smith—or anyone of a lesser stature.

“I do hope you will enjoy it,” she prattled on. “The heroine is a spunky gal who is willing to defend herself. When one of the sheikh’s rogue henchmen enters her tent, she throttles him with a scarf. It was most invigorating for me, her creator. My publisher attempted to redact the scene, but I was adamant that it remain. I modelled her on you, Mrs. Emerson, for surely you would have done the same in that situation.” She gave me a steely look that unsettled me.

I was taken aback by her atypical demeanor. “I have never throttled anyone, nor do I intend to do so in the future. You must look elsewhere for your inspiration. These cakes are delicious, are they not?”

After an hour in which she wheedled me for more stories, I thanked her for my gift and excused myself. I went upstairs, where I found Daoud guarding the door of Herr Morgenstern. I detoured into my quarters to rid myself of the sheikh’s shadow and his callous heroine, inspect my attire for errant crumbs, and gather up a potentially utile object. I then emerged and sent Daoud away to rest. It required a great deal of assertiveness on my behalf before he agreed to nap on the sofa in my quarters. (We both knew he would hover just inside the doorway to listen for the tiniest hint of a disturbance.)