“Al Medina? You must have heard of it.”
She nodded, her ears screeching with panic, with worry, with an unshakable sense of impending disaster. “Who died, Dim?”
“The Sheikh—Adan.”
Cora stared at him, the words barely making any sense. “But how? You said horse riding? I don’t understand. How—how is your friend?”
“I haven’t spoken to him. He’s now Sheikh, he’s been busy with the burial and all the government crap. But knowing how close they were, I imagine he’s pretty fucking heartbroken.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure.” She took another sip of coffee, her own heart shattering. To imagine Samir alone at a time like this. Wanting her? When he’d spoken of Adan, it had been with such easy affection. They’d loved each other.
Her pulse was in her ears, pounding and slamming against her.
“I met your friend Samir,” she blurted out. “At the gallery opening. He was kind to me. Loaned me his coat as I was cold.” She had to get there, to see him. She had to do it. “I—I’d like to come. Will you take me with you?”
Dimitrios frowned. “Yeah, if you want, of course. But it’s not going to be much fun.”
Cora tilted her face, a wave of anger washing over her. “Unlike it usually is when someone dies?”
“Sorry. Yes, come with me. I could use the company.”
In the end,he didn’t need Cora’s company—the jet stopped off in Athens and collected the rest of the family. Every Xenakis child was on the flight, leaving Cora with no time in her own head, no time to think of Samir, and the demanding task of acting as though she was completely fine for her family’s benefit. How could she be fine? Her heart was breaking for Samir because his own heart was breaking. His grief was hers—shared because she loved him, because their burden had to be shared.
She did her best to make conversation on the flight, but it cost her dearly, and when they were about three hours out of Baljaha, the capital of Al Medina, Cora escaped into one of the bedrooms, feigning a need for sleep.
“You must sleep.”His mother’s voice was taut with worry. “It’s been days.”
Samir turned to face her, dark eyes like extinguished embers in his face. “How are you, mother?”
She grimaced in response, hands moving in front of her. “I thought losing your father was my worst nightmare.” She moved into the room, face pale, eyes haunted. “But I had you and Adan, two beautiful, strong, capable, confident children. I had your futures to console myself with.” She came to stand beside him, at the back of thepashakaroom—traditionally used for ceremonies in which the Sheikh met with various council leaders. The walls were hung with bright tapestries, ancient but perfectly preserved, and the floor was the cleanest, whitest marble, so it glowed even now, in the middle of the night.
“Mothers are not meant to mourn their sons.”
“No,” Samir agreed, thinking the same could be said for younger brothers. “Tomorrow will be a difficult day, for both of us.” They had laid Adan to rest within hours of his death. Samir had washed his brother, and helped prepare him, but in keeping with the royal traditions of Al Medina, tomorrow was the day in which people could come to pay their respects. Family, friends, government ministers, anyone from the public as well. It would be a long day for Samir, who was expected to sit and greet each and every one of them, accepting condolences and well wishes for his reign. It was a spectacle he could well do without, but for Adan, to honour his brother’s memory, he would abide with tradition.
“Of course.” Fatima dipped her head forward, hair that was once the darkest of blacks now a slate grey, wound up into a loose bun at her nape. “But it is not tomorrow that worries me.”
“No?”
She lifted her face to his, her skin pale and fine, lined by the last week’s grief. She was the one who needed to sleep, Samir realised, guilt slamming into him. Since Adan’s death and burial, he’d been absorbed by government matters—the swift passing of power from Adan to Samir had been imperative, but it had been time consuming, leaving Samir barely able to process his own grief, much less help his mother with hers.
“There is only you now, my dear. The last Sheikh of our family.”
Samir nodded slowly.
“This was not the life we had planned for you. Your father and I delighted in your path—the fact you could live so much more freely. That you could travel and experience the joys of this life without the constraints of royal obligations.”
Samir dipped his head. “I am aware of how privileged I am.”
She gripped his arm, squeezing tight. “But we were wrong. We should have prepared for this eventuality. We should have preparedbothof you.”
“I am ready to rule, mother. I am prepared.”
“No, no, no,” she was growing upset. Samir studied her, sadness plunging through him. His mother wasn’t overly emotional. She was feeling Adan’s death deeply—naturally—but Samir hated to see her like this. “You should both have been married by now, with children of your own. I thought you would have more time, so much more time, but it cannot wait. You must make finding a wife a priority. You can see that, can’t you?”
Samir’s entire body seemed to turn to ice. It was a reality he hadn’t grappled with—there simply hadn’t been time—but of course, Fatima was right. He would have to marry, and soon.
An image of Cora immediately came to mind and he could have dropped to his knees with gladness. To see her, to imagine her, at this time…but then, her words were there, their argument, all the reasons he couldn’t publicly date her when he was only the second son.