‘What did you do before?’ she asked, changing the subject before he too realised why she was so jumpy, resuming her walk along the beach under the stars. ‘Before all this happened. Were you always in Al-Jirad? I attended a few functions at the Blue Palace, but I don’t remember seeing you at any of them.’
‘No, you wouldn’t have,’ he said, falling into step beside her as the low waves swooshed in, their foam bright even in the low moonlight. ‘I left when it was clear there was no place for me here.’
‘Because of Mustafa?’
‘Partly. My father always took his side. I was twelve when my mother died and there seemed no reason to stay. Mustafa and I hated each other and everyone knew it. For the peace of the family, my father sent me to boarding school in England.’
She looked up at his troubled profile and wondered what it must have been like to be cast adrift from your family because you didn’t fit in, when you were possibly the only sane member in it.
She slipped her hand back in his and resumed walking along the shore, hoping he wouldn’t make too much of it. She was merely offering her understanding, that was all. ‘Is that where you met your three friends?’
‘That was later. We met at university.’
‘And you clicked right away?’
‘No. We hated each other on sight.’
She looked at him and frowned. He shrugged. ‘Nothing breeds hatred faster than someone else telling you who should be friends.’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘It’s a long story. Basically we’d all come from different places and somehow all ended up in the university rowing club, all of us loners up till then and intending to row alone, as we had always done to keep fit. Until someone decided to stick us in a crew together, expecting we “foreigners” should all get along. For a joke they called our four the Sheikh Caique.’ He paused a while, reflecting, and then said, ‘They did not laugh long.’
‘And over time you did become good friends with them.’
He shrugged and looked out to sea, and she wondered what parts of the story he was not telling her. ‘That was not automatic, but yes. And I could not wish for better brothers.’
They walked in silence for a while, the whoosh of the waves and the call of birds settling down to sleep in the swaying palm trees the music of the night.
And then he surprised her by stopping and catching her other hand in his. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he started.
‘No, I explained—’
He let go of one hand and put a finger to her lips. ‘I need to say this, Princess, and I am not good at apologies, so you must not stop me.’
She nodded, her lips brushing the pad of his finger, and she drank in the intoxicating scent of him. It was all she could do not to reach out her tongue so she might once again taste his flesh.
‘I was wrong about you, Princess. I know I messed up trying to tell you before, but you are not who I thought you were. I underestimated you. I assumed you were lightweight and frothy, spoilt and two-dimensional. I assumed that because you called what you did with children your “work”, that it must be no kind of work. But after seeing you forge a bond with that little girl today, the way you knelt down and listened to her and treated her like an equal, I realised this is a gift you have.
‘And I apologise unreservedly for my misjudgement, because I was wrong on every single count. I had no concept of the person you really are.’
She waited for reality to return—for this moment to pass, this dream sequence to pass, for the real Zoltan to return—but instead she saw only this Zoltan waiting for her answer.
‘You’re wrong, you know.’
‘About you?’
‘About being no good at apologies. That was one of the best I think I’ve ever heard.’
It was true. His confession had reached out to her, warming her in places she would never have suspected him reaching. His previous assessment of her was no surprise. She had known he had resented her from the start, assuming she was some shallow party-girl princess who cared nothing for duty. But what was a surprise was the way his words touched her. And, even though he had not realised yet in how many ways he had misjudged her, his words touched her in places deep inside, places she thought immune to the likes of anything Zoltan could say or do.
He smiled. ‘I am so sorry, Aisha,’ he said and she blinked up open-mouthed at him.
‘You called me by my name. You have never called me that before.’
He nodded, his eyes contrite. ‘And it is to my eternal shame that I did not do so from the very beginning. You deserved to be called by your name rather than your title. A name that spoke of the goddess you were surely named for, the goddess who must be so jealous right now of your perfection that she is hiding away up there behind the blinds.’