“Ever since you were a little girl, you had your father wrapped around your finger. He gave you everything you asked for. After your husband died, the sheikh even bought you an apartment in Basra and let you live there alone. No other widow enjoyed such freedoms. And you want me to believe he refused your pleas to save my brothers?”

“But it’s true,” whispered Rania.

“Your father had influence.” Huda’s eyes narrowed till they were thin and sharp as blades. “He could have gone to the authorities and convinced them to spare my brothers. But he never even tried. You were too busy helping your fancy friends, your friends with college degrees and honorable names, too busy to plead for mere village boys.”

“I begged my father.” Rania pressed her hand to her stinging eyes. “He wouldn’t listen.”

“The sheikh helped so many in our tribe. Why not my brothers? Why didn’t he save them?”

“Because . . .” Rania trailed off. Many years ago, she promised Huda there’d be no secrets between them. She’d sworn a blood oath. Did she really think she could cast that aside without consequence?

“My father refused because . . .” Rania choked up. “He wanted to protect my honor.”

“Your honor?” Huda glared. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you remember the first night of the rebellion?” Rania’s vision turned inward and traveled back in time to her apartment in Basra, from where she watched tracer fire carve arcs in the night sky. “It was as if the entire city was suddenly alive. We’d been squashed under the regime’s boot for so long, barely daring to breathe, let alone whisper what was truly in our hearts. But that night was different. We were frightened, yes. But that night, the first night, we had never felt so free.”

In the eucalypt, the crow moaned and shuffled about.

“When the fighting started, my father came to my apartment to make sure I was safe.” Rania stared at a crack running through the table, laid silent by a familiar rush of guilt. No secrets, she told herself.

“He found me with Mustafa,” she said quietly.

“I don’t understand.” Huda shook her head. “What was Mustafa doing at your apartment?”

“My husband was dead, Huda. That night I was not with his brother, who was meant to take his place. I was not with one of those men with an honorable name.” Shame scorched Rania’s cheeks, her neck, and the thin skin at her chest. “I was with Mustafa. A village boy.”

Shock rose like a moon in Huda’s eyes.

“You mean . . . ?”