I hold my breath.
“I was planning to exile,” he finishes, but it’s disjointed, as though the tail-end of his comment isn’t what he intended to make.
“And?”
“And, I exiled him,” he says with such finality, a shiver runs the length of my spine.
I want to defend my father, to tell Zahir how wrong he was, but something holds me back. I feel as though there’s so much I don’t know, just like dad said. But I know Zahir. I understand him. And I know that he’s just confessed something to me that I should pay heed to.
For Zahir, there is no doubt.
My father is guilty. Of the crime I know about, and perhaps many more.
I’ll never accept that, but Zahir’s beliefs are absolute.
I shake my head with sadness. How can this work? Why didn’t I realise how difficult this would be? Because I planned to hate my husband. I thought this would be a marriage in name only. I had no concept I was signing on to an impossible juggling act, that every moment with Zahir would require me to betray my loyalty to my father.
I feel that I’m being pulled in two directions again, my limbs sagging with the effort.
“I didn’t ask you here to fight.”
His words are a low rumble, and when I look at him, he’s gesturing towards the scatter cushions and a brightly coloured rug. For the first time, I notice a trolley made of gold, shimmering in the moonlight. It’s filled with trays, each topped with a golden cover, to keep what I presume is food beneath warm.
“No?”
He shakes his head and the smile he offers me now is a peace envoy. He holds out a hand and I stare at it, the pull on my heart from two different sectors so pronounced now. I walk towards him slowly, the drag back to my father, to defending him, stronger than I can easily dismiss, and yet I do, putting my hand in Zahir’s. It’s like the stars just got brighter, their lights blinding.
“We’re married.”
It’s a statement of fact but something about the way he says it, beneath the veil of stars and surrounded by ancient desert sands, pricks my skin with goosebumps.
“I know.”
His smile is reflexive.
“I want this marriage to work. I have been facing pressure for a number of years, on the matter of an heir. I knew I had to marry, and quickly, and choosing you – a Hassan – made a lot of political sense. But you are so different to what I expected; you are so much more...”
Again, my breath is trapped in my lungs, impatience searing me as I wait to hear his next words. Hope is an unbearable weight on my chest. Is it possible he has started to feel things for me too? To care for me in a way neither of us expected when we made this pragmatic union?
He shakes his head. “You are a far better Emira than I had hoped. You will be a true asset to my people.” He squeezes my hand, as though those words aren’t damning me with faint praise and killing my soul all at once.
“I want us to focus on that. There is so much good that can come from our marriage, if we don’t let the bad taint it.”
My heart skips a beat.
“Our marriage was founded on the bad,” I point out.
“But it’s changed.” He eyes me carefu
lly. “Hasn’t it?”
My mouth is dry. I can’t deny it. Our marriage has substantially changed, for me. But not in the ways he means. I drop my gaze, looking towards the trolley.
Perhaps he sees this as acquiescence because he lets go of my hand and strides to the meals. “Take a seat.” He lifts a dish from the trolley and walks to me – I have stayed standing right where I was. “And enjoy.”
He lifts the lid off the platter and my eyes go wide.
“Macaroni cheese?”