He’s watching, waiting for my response. I lift my shoulders, conscious suddenly of the fact I’m still in pyjamas. It’s nothing new – he saw me like this in the desert, on our ‘honeymoon’, and yet self-consciousness floods me now. Ridiculous. Yesterday we spent hours making love, and this morning I’m like that blushing virgin he accused me of being.
As if he’s reading the direction of my thoughts, his eyes drift lower, conducting an insouciant inspection of my breasts. They tingle, aching for his touch. I arrange my features into a haughty mask and when I speak it’s with a voice tinged with ice. “I was exiled along with my father, remember? And I was only six. So, no, your highness. I don’t remember very much at all about the town I used to live in.”
It’s not completely true. I remember lots of things. Unimportant minutiae that come to me as snatches of information when I least expect it. The sound of the bell calling for prayers, the smell of the street stalls preparing food in the evenings, the noise of children playing freely outside, the darkness of the nights – so far from urban civilisation, the sky inky black just as it had been in the desert.
He doesn’t visibly respond to my cool answer, simply nods, sipping his own coffee, his hand looking ridiculously huge on the tiny cup. “I have a meeting with some of the town leaders not far from Thakirt, the village where your father’s home is. Your home. I thought you might like to come with me.”
Surprise has my lips parting, my fingers trembling slightly.
“Really?” I can’t help the tone of surprise from creeping into my voice.
He dips his head in agreement. “Having you in this region will be a good – benchmark.”
My eyes narrow. “You mean a test?”
It’s his turn to shrug, broad shoulders that draw my eyes even when I want to blot out his physical attractiveness.
“I mean an opportunity to evaluate the situation better.” He finishes his coffee, replacing the cup on the bench. “An opportunity for our marriage to do what it was supposed to. Your presence as my wife will placate members of this region who would like, more than anything, to see a Hassan on the throne.”
I nod slowly. “Fine. Yes. Let’s do it.”
“Can you be ready in an hour?”
I glance at my wristwatch and nod. “I think so. What’s the rush?”
“I should have thought you’d be impatient to see it?”
A kaleidoscope of butterflies bursts through my tummy. “I am.”
“Good.” There’s an intensity in his gaze that fires heat in my veins. “Aliya will bring you to the car when it’s time.”
“Okay.”
“You’re sure you’re well enough?”
I analyse his tone for any hint of scepticism, for any clue that he knows I lied last night, but hear only a bland request for assurance. Even if I were close to death’s door, I wouldn’t want to miss this, but given that the worst ailment afflicting me is a case of sleep deprivation, I nod quickly.
He’s at the door when he turns back to face me. “It will be an overnight stay, Amy.”
It’s all he says, but the meaning is clear.
No more excuses.
Tonight, we’ll share a bed.
8
Zahir
SHE WAS SILENT IN the car beside me, her face purposefully angled from mine, her hands clasped in her lap. Everything about her body language screamed a silent warning. Don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me.
I don’t touch, but I do find myself looking at her, wondering how she’s feeling about this trip – the prospect of returning to a region of the country in which she spent years of her young life.
Amy was only six when her father was exiled. It’s plausible that, as she said, she doesn’t remember anything of this province, and yet I didn’t completely believe her. There was a look of nostalgia that crossed her features when I’d asked her about coming here, returning.
The plane lurches a little and a movement catches my eye. I turn to see Amy gripping the handles of her seat, her skin paler than usual.
“It’s always turbulent over the mountains.”