Hatim’s Passat rolled to a stop outside the restaurant’s red-and-white awning.

“Can I meet you at the opposite end of the street?” Ally held tight to her handbag, as if her falsehoods might escape its leather mouth. “In front of the big fountain?”

“Sure, take your time.” Hatim gave her a thumbs-up.

As he motored away, Ally’s shoulders softened with relief. She’d figured she could get to Miriam’s house and back again without Hatim noticing—unlike Abdul Amir, who rarely let her out of his sight. Tom maintained Abdul Amir was simply being protective, but regardless, she felt stifled.

With her eyes hidden by dark glasses, Ally discreetly scanned the street. A shoeshine boy dozed in the narrow strip of shade by the restaurant. Across the road, a waiter swept the sidewalk outside an ice cream parlor. Ally pulled her scarf over her hair and hurried away from Arasat, into well-kept backstreets lined with sturdy gates.

Ally stuck close to the walls and did her best to keep her pace steady, not too fast or too slow, trying to look like she belonged. She pretended to remove a pebble from her sandal, so she could check if she was being followed. The only person she spotted was a gardener pruning back a stand of pink flowering spurge, the same thorny plant used to make Jesus’ crown of thorns.

It took less than ten minutes to reach the address Gunter had supplied. Ally had imagined a house like Rania’s: grand but crumbling, with peeling paint and sagging gutters. Instead, a silky-smooth driveway led to an eighties-era villa of brick and tile. A row of faux-Roman columns sat out front.

Staring through the bars on the gate, Ally’s heart galloped. Would Miriam remember her mother? Would she help to fill the aching hole she’d carried inside since she was five years old? Or would she recall only that her mother was American and throw her out on the street? Ally took a deep breath and pressed her finger to a button on the wall. An electronic bell blared from a hidden speaker, startling a sleepy pigeon from its tree.

The bell tolled on and on, like Big Ben at midday, until Miriam’s older brother, Farouk, pried open the gate. He’d been expecting Ally, and politely waved her past two concrete lions guarding the front door.

“How did you learn of my sister’s artwork?”

“I came across one of her pieces in a souvenir shop,” said Ally. As far as Farouk knew, she was just a diplomat’s wife with a fondness for art. She was careful not to mention seeing the statue in Rania’s garden. If her mother’s citizenship caused any strife, Ally wanted to make sure trouble rained down on her alone.

“Well, my sister’s work is not everyone’s taste,” sniffed Farouk. “That’s for certain.”