“You are a curious person. I understand. Close them.”
Sophia did as she’d been told, sweeping her eyes shut.
“Feel this,” Fatima murmured.
At first, Sophia felt nothing. Just hot, from the sun, from the day that surrounded them. But then, something began to spark in her fingertips, and a different heat, more of a gentle warmth, seemed to throb in her veins.
Her breath grew rhythmic and she saw a flash of green behind her eyes. She kept them shut.
“You are sad,” Fatima said, after several moments, and the warmth migrated higher, to Sophia’s chest.
She swallowed.
“A deep sadness, right here.” And now she pressed a finger to Sophia’s chest and she felt that grief – some very old, some very new – spiral through her. “You must allow yourself to feel it. Accept that it is a part of who you are. Sadness like this never goes away – it is like a stone in the desert, covered over by sand but always there, deep inside.”
Sophia swallowed. Her heart tugged painfully.
There was a noise. Sophia blinked her eyes open and the world seemed to tip completely off its axis. Fatima smiled. Behind her, the children were playing, running in circles, each trying to catch one another.
“Do you believe now?”
Sophia’s heart lurched. Did she? She couldn’t say for certain.
She watched the children play and a servant brought iced tea and vine leaves wrapped around rice and dates. She ate with the women of the tribe, and found herself laughing even more.
And as the day moved towards afternoon, something settled inside her soul.
A certainty that Malik’s fears were unfounded. This way of life wouldn’t disintegrate so easily. There was magic here, and love. It was impossible to imagine that all of these people would turn their backs on this life they knew.
Before dusk, with no sight of Malik, Sophia settled the younger children of the village into a circle, and she began to tell them a story – one of the ancient tales Sheikh Bashira had taught her, when she was just a little girl. She had read the books so many times over the years, she knew the tales by heart. She spoke slowly, conscious there was a difference in the Abu Fayan she spoke and the dialect of this tribe. But it was close enough. Close enough for the children’s faces to sparkle with wonderment as she spoke of ancient traders and the monsters that pursued them across these deserts, the caves that shielded them with their magic and art. She saw the way they laughed at the antics of Jaffaran, the ancient King who was so very vain that he insisted on anyone who saw him knowing how rich and important he was. So much so that he went into the Ocean of Alindor wearing all of his jew
els and crowns, and sank to the bottom of the sea.
She lowered her voice to a whisper and spoke of the pirates who had hunted for those jewels and been taken by the sea as well, swallowed up into its deep belly – a reminder that seeking earthly wealth is beneath us, and can only lead to danger.
She saw their faces light up and the seed of hope that Fatima had planted in her belly exploded into an orchard.
Was it possible that a child, just as sweet as these little ones, might be growing in her already?
He knew the story of Jaffaran well. It had been one of his father’s favourites to recount. Sheikh Bashira had known the danger of pursuing personal wealth in place of prioritizing the people.
He knew the story well and yet he’d never heard it told like this.
He stood on the edge of the group, outside of his wife’s field of vision, and he listened as she spoke, the words flowing from her lips almost as if by magic.
He stood behind her and saw the rapt expressions of the tribe’s children, the smiles of the adults who were gathering to hear their Sheikha, and pride burst through him.
It was ridiculous and misplaced. Not only had he not chosen her as his wife, he’d made it clear he didn’t relish the prospect of her holding any such position. And yet his father had been right. His brother had been right.
Sophia was perfect for this. We all have our roles to play, she’d said. And she was playing hers with absolute perfection. He had no idea what else she might have been destined for, what other life may have called her had Bashira and her father not been friends, had Bashira not decided that Sophia had a place within the palace. But he had, and he had chosen well.
Malik had been the last to realize that.
Much later, as the helicopter lifted up out of the desert, and the tribe stood below, waving their farewell, Sophia pressed her forehead to the window, staring down at them, and Malik watched her.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, her admiration apparent in the tone of her voice. “I didn’t expect to be so touched.”
“Their way of life is unique,” he agreed.