‘It’s not possible.’ Malik sighed. ‘You know there are matters here that require my urgent attention.’
Paris expelled a breath. ‘Then send someone. A diplomat. A cousin.’
‘No. It can’t be a snub, nor a regular visit. This has to have meaning to his people, the way his visit did for ours.’
‘It can’t have meant that much,’ Paris pointed out, ‘for the skirmishes to be continuing.’
‘Sheikh Amir is right. We have to be unified in this.’ Johara spoke above both of them, standing with innate elegance and striding towards one of the windows that framed a view of the citrus gardens. Their formal layout was designed as a tribute to a French palace, each tree surrounded by bursts of lavender, white gravel demarcating the various plantings.
Paris and Malik were silent; waiting.
‘I hate the idea of going to Ishkana.’ She did, but not for reasons she could ever share with either man. She had tried to forget everything about Sheikh Amir and his hateful kingdom since they’d spoken on the balcony; to be sent there now as a guest of the palace? She trembled at the idea, and with outrage, nothing more!
‘So don’t go,’ Paris murmured.
‘I have to.’ She turned to face him, her smile dismissive. He was a good friend but the more time she’d spent back in Taquul, the more certain she’d become that she could never marry him. There was no doubt in her mind that he had her brother’s best interests at heart, and yet that wasn’t enough. She would speak to him about it, put the idea from his mind once and for all. His concern was worrying because it suggested he cared for her in a way that went beyond duty to the Sheikh, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt Paris.
‘Malik is right. We have to show the people of Ishkana that we value this peace accord,’ she said with quiet resolve. ‘For our people, we must appear to be moving forward. We have to lead the way. How can we expect them to find peace in their hearts if we don’t demonstrate it? I will go to Ishkana as a guest of the palace. I will attend state dinners and speak to the parliament. I will tour their ancient ruins and libraries and smile for the cameras. Is that what you want, Mal?’
He made a small noise of agreement. ‘You know how I hate to ask it of you.’
She waved a hand through the air. ‘If you hadn’t asked, I would have suggested it. It’s the best thing for everyone.’
‘No, Johara. You will be exposed—’
‘I’ll be a guest of their King, will I not?’
Malik dipped his head forward in silent agreement.
‘And staying in the palace?’
Another nod.
‘So I presume His Majesty will vouch for my safety?’
‘For what it’s worth,’ Paris responded dubiously.
At that, Malik held up a hand. ‘I believe Amir is a man of honour.’ The words were dark, troubled. ‘He is a Haddad, so naturally I mistrust him, but I believe that, having invited you to the palace, he will go out of his way to ensure your safety.’
Johara’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Sheikh Amir invited me?’
Malik’s smile was dismissive. ‘A figure of speech. The suggestion came through diplomatic channels and no specific guest was mentioned. It was my idea that you should attend.’
‘Of course.’ She turned away again quickly, hoping she’d hid the look of disappointment she knew must be on her face. What had she expected? That he’d roll out the red carpet for her eight weeks after they’d last seen each other? He’d made his feelings perfectly clear that night.
It was a mistake. Her heart skipped another beat. It wasn’t a mistake. It was the single greatest moment of her life and she wouldn’t let him take that away from her. Oh, she desperately wished that they weren’t who they were—the Haddads and Qadirs had hated each other for too long to allow it to be forgotten. But in that moment, it had been too perfect so even now she struggled to care.
‘So you’ll go?’
What would it be like to enter his kingdom? His palace? She’d never been to Ishkana. It wouldn’t have been safe until recently. She’d seen photographs and knew much of its history, but to see it for herself? Curiosity sparked inside her, and she told herself the rushing of her pulse was owing to that alone.
‘Yes, Mal. I’ll go to Ishkana.’
In many ways, it was just like Taquul. The sand was the same colour, the heat was the same, the trees innately familiar. But as the limousine approached the palace she felt a flash of anticipation warm her skin. The approach to the palace was lined with palm trees, and on one side, a colourful market had been set up. The limousine was obliged to slow down as pedestrians meandered across the road, in no hurry to clear the way for the car. It gave her time to observe. An old woman sat in the shade cast from her brightly coloured market tent, an ancient spinning wheel before her. She moved effortlessly, each shift of the wheel an act she’d obviously repeated millions of times in her long lifetime. A vibrant red wool was being formed at one side. Another woman sat beside her, talking and cackling with laughter. The next stall showed spices, piled high in pyramids, just as vendors did at home, the next sold sweets—she recognised many of the same illicit delicacies she’d been introduced to by the gardening staff who’d tended the maze.
As the car neared the palace gates, she saw something that broke her heart. Several people stood in a cluster, shaded by a large, old umbrella. Their clothes were poor, their faces grubby and bodies frail. She turned to the driver, leaning forward. ‘Stop the car.’
He pressed the brakes, looking over his shoulder. ‘Madam?’