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‘If my brother had been aware of such traditions, I am sure he would have made every effort to be here,’ he said after a moment, and Bahir inclined his head in gracious acknowledgement.
‘Of course, of course. As it is, he is not, and you are. And for the sake of our beloved people, as well as the peace of our happy country, the festival must go forward as planned. It is a small affair, a simple matter. Food, music, dancing. I thought, considering—’ he paused delicately ‘—you could stop in Makaris on your way to the airport, and enjoy the festivities for an hour, two, no more. The people like a glimpse of the royal family, that is all.’
‘On the way to the airport?’ Aarif repeated, his voice scrupulously polite. ‘It was my understanding we would depart from the palace’s airstrip.’
Bahir waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes, I can see how you would think that. But as I said, the people of Zaraq care very much for the royal family, and in truth Princess Kalila, being my only heir, is much loved. They will want to wish her well, say farewell, you know how it is.’ He smiled, but no one could mistake the shrewd glint in his eyes.
Aarif dabbed his mouth with a napkin before smiling easily, although Kalila saw that his eyes were just as hard and shrewd as her father’s. ‘Yes, of course. We must satisfy the people, King Bahir. Let it be as you wish.’
Bahir smiled in satisfaction, and Kalila felt a sudden wave of numbing fatigue crash over her at the thought of several hours of mingling, chatting, waving, smiling. Indulging everyone’s need for a fairy tale.
Yet it had to be done; it would be done. It was, she knew, all part of her duty as princess. As queen.
‘I am sorry to rush you from your home, Princess,’ Aarif said, turning to her. ‘But as you know, the wedding is in two weeks, and there will be preparations to complete there.’ He paused before adding almost as an afterthought, ‘And of course King Zakari will be eager to see you, his bride.’
‘Of course.’ Kalila stared down at her untouched plate. At that moment she had trouble believing Zakari was eager for anything but another diamond in his crown.
The rest of the evening passed with more ease, and Bahir made sure the wine and conversation flowed smoothly.
‘I have heard that many of the Al’Farisi princes have been educated at Oxford,’ he said as dessert, roasted plums seasoned with cardamom and nutmeg, was served. ‘I went to Sandhurst myself, which is how I happened to meet my late wife, Queen Amelia, God rest her soul. Her brother was one of my best friends.’ Bahir smiled in inquiry. ‘Did you attend Oxford, Aarif?’
‘I did, and then returned to Calista to oversee our diamond industry.’
‘You are a man of business.’
‘Indeed.’
And he looked like one, Kalila thought. All about hard facts and figures, details and prices. Even his eyes had the hardness of diamonds.
‘Kalila went to Cambridge,’ Bahir continued. ‘As I’m sure you, or at least your brother, knows. She studied history, and enjoyed her years there, didn’t you, my dear?’
‘Yes, very much.’ Kalila smiled stiffly, disliking the way her father trotted out her accomplishments as if she were a show pony. A brood mare.
‘An education is important for any ruler, don’t you think?’ Bahir continued, andAarif swivelled slightly to rest that harsh and unyielding gaze on Kalila.
She stilled under it, felt again that strange warmth bloom in her cheeks and her belly at his scrutiny. Strange, when his expression was so ungenerous, his eyes so dark and obdurate. She should quell under that unyielding gaze, yet she didn’t. She flourished. She wanted more, yet more of what? What more could a man like Aarif give?
‘Yes,’ he said flatly, and then looked away.
Finally the meal was over, and Bahir invited Aarif to take a cigar and port in his private study. It was a male tradition, one that took different guises all around the world, and all it took was for her father to raise his eyebrows at her for Kalila to know she’d been excused. It usually annoyed her, this arrogant dismissal of women from what was seen as the truly important matters, but tonight she was glad.
She wanted to be alone. She needed to think.
She waited until Bahir and Aarif were ensconced in the study before she slipped outside to the palace’s private gardens, an oasis of verdant calm. She loved these gardens, the cool shade provided by a hundred different varieties of shrub and flower, the twisting paths that would suddenly lead to a fountain or sculpture or garden bench, something pleasant and lovely.
She breathed in deeply the surprising scents of lavender and rose, imported from England by Bahir for the pleasure of his homesick wife.
The air was damp and fresh from the sprinkler system Bahir had installed, although Kalila could still feel the dry, creeping chill of the night-time desert air. She wished she’d thought to bring a wrap; her arms crept around her body instead.
She didn’t want to marry Zakari. She acknowledged this starkly, peeled away the layers of self-deceit and foolish hope to reveal the plain and unpleasant truth underneath. She didn’t want to travel to a foreign country, even one as close as Calista, to be a queen. She didn’t want to live the life that had been carefully chosen for her too many years ago.
She didn’t want to do her duty.
Funny, that she would realise this now. Now, when it was too late, far too late, when the wedding was imminent, the invitations already sent out even. Or were they? Funny, too, that she had no idea of the details of her own wedding, her own marriage, not even about the groom.
Kalila sighed. The path she’d been walking on opened onto a sheltered curve bound by hedgerows, set with a small fountain, its waters gleaming blackly in the darkness, the newly risen moon reflected on its still surface. She sank onto a bench by the fountain, curling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees, a position from childhood, a position of comfort.
From the ground she scooped up a handful of smooth pebbles and let them trickle through her fingers, each one making a tiny scuffling sound on the dirt below. She hadn’t realised the truth of her situation until now, she knew, because she hadn’t separated it from herself before.
Since she was a child of twelve—half of her life—she’d known she was going to marry King Zakari. She’d had a picture of him—from a newspaper—in her underwear drawer, although she made sure no one saw it. When she was alone, she’d taken it out and smoothed the paper, stared at the blurred image—it wasn’t even a very good shot—and wondered about the man in the picture. The man who would be her husband, the father of her children, her life partner.
In those early years she’d embroidered delicate daydreams about him, his beauty and bravery, intelligence and humour. She’d built him up to be a king even before a crown rested on his head. Of course, that youthful naiveté hadn’t lasted too long; by the time she went to Cambridge, she’d realised Zakari could not possibly be the man of her daydreams. No man could.
And even when she’d thought she was being realistic, nobly doing her duty, accepting the greater aims of her country, she’d still clung to those old daydreams. They’d hidden in the corner of her heart, dusty and determined, and only when Aarif had shown himself in the throne room had she realised their existence at all.
She still believed. She still wanted. She wanted that man…impossible, wonderful, somehow real.
Because that man loved her…whoever he was.
For a strange, surprised moment, Aarif’s implacable features flashed through her mind, and she shook her head as if to deny what a secret part of her brain was telling her. The only reason she thought of Aarif at all, she told herself, was because Zakari wasn’t here.
Yet she couldn’t quite rid herself of the lingering sense of his presence, that faint flicker of his smile. You wore a white dress, with a bow in your hair.
Such a simple statement, and yet there had been a strange intimacy in that memory, in its revelation.
‘Excuse me.’
The voice, sharp and sudden, caused Kalila to stiffen in surprise. Aarif stood by the fountain, no more than a shadowy form in the darkness. They stared at each other, the only sound the rustling of leaves and, in the distance, the gentle churring of a nightjar.
‘I didn’t realise,’ Aarif said after a moment, his voice stiff and formal, ‘that anyone was here.’
Kalila swallowed. ‘I thought you’d still be with my father.’
‘We finished, and he wished to go to bed.’
More time must have passed than she’d realised, lost in her own unhappy reflections.
‘I’ll go,’ Aarif said, and began to turn.
‘Please. Don’t.’ The words came out in a rush, surprising her. Kalila didn’t know what she wanted from this man, so hard and strange and ungiving. Yet she knew she didn’t want him to go; she didn’t want to be alone any more. She wanted, she realised, to be with him. To know more about him, even if there was no point. No purpose.
Aarif hesitated, still half-turned, and then as Kalila held her breath he slowly swivelled back to her. In the darkness she couldn’t see his expression. ‘Is there something I can help you with, Princess?’
Kalila patted the empty seat next to her. ‘Please sit.’
Another long moment passed, and in the darkness Kalila thought she could see Aarif gazing thoughtfully at that empty space before he moved slowly—reluctantly—and sat down next to her, yet still far enough apart so his body did not touch hers at all.
The constraint of his behaviour, Kalila realised, was revealing in itself. Was he aware of the tension Kalila felt, that heady sense of something unfurling within her, something she’d never felt before?
Did he feel it too?
He couldn’t, Kalila decided, or if he did, he was not showing it. He sat rigidly, his hands resting on his thighs, unmoving, and it amazed her how still and controlled he was, giving nothing away by either sound or movement.
‘This is a beautiful garden,’ Aarif said after a moment, and Kalila was glad he’d spoken.
‘I have always loved it,’ she agreed quietly. ‘My father designed it for my mother—a taste of her homeland.’
‘Like the Gardens of Babylon, built by Nebuchadnezzar for Amytis.’
‘Yes.’ Kalila smiled, pleased he’d recognised the connection. ‘My father used to call my mother Amytis, as an endearment.’ She heard the wistful note in her voice and bit her lip.
‘I’m sorry for her death,’ Aarif said, his voice still formal and somehow remote. ‘The loss of a parent is a hard thing to bear.’
‘Yes.’
‘When did she die?’
‘When I was seventeen. Cancer.’ Kalila swallowed. It had been so unexpected, so swift. There had only been a few, precious, painful weeks between diagnosis and death, and then the raging emptiness afterwards. Going to Cambridge had been a relief, a new beginning, and yet Kalila knew the ache of her mother’s loss would never fully heal. It was something you carried with you, always.
‘I’m sorry,’ Aarif said quietly, and Kalila knew he meant it. Above them the nightjar began its steady churring once more.
‘I know you lost your father and stepmother a few years ago,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I…I heard of it. I’m sorry.’ She’d written to Zakari, she remembered, expressing her condolences, and she’d received a formal letter back. Now she wondered if he’d even written it.
‘Thank you. It was…difficult.’ Aarif said nothing more, and Kalila did not feel she could brave the intimacy of asking. He shifted slightly, and she wondered if he was uncomfortable. There was a strange, quiet intimacy provided by the cloak of darkness, the sounds of the night gentle and hypnotic around them. She wished she could see his face, but the moon had gone beyond a cloud and she could see no more than the shadowy outline of his shoulder, his jaw, his cheek.
‘Tell me about Calista,’ she finally said. ‘You know, I’ve never been there.’
Aarif was silent for so long Kalila wondered if he’d heard her. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he finally said. ‘Much like here.’ He paused, and Kalila waited. ‘Of course, not everyone sees the beauty of the desert. It is a harsh loveliness. Was it difficult for your mother to live here?’
‘Sometimes,’ Kalila acknowledged. ‘Although she took trips back to England—I spent my first holidays in Bournemouth.’
The moon glided out from behind a cloud, and in the pale light Kalila saw his teeth gleam, and she realised he was smiling. Faintly. The gesture surprised her; he hadn’t smiled properly since she’d met him. She wished she could see more of it. She wondered if the smile lit his eyes, softened the hard planes of his face, and realised she wanted to know. ‘And she had the garden, of course,’ she finished after a moment, her voice sounding stilted. ‘She loved it here.’
‘And you?’ Aarif asked. ‘Will you miss your homeland?’
Kalila swallowed. ‘Yes…I think so.’ He said nothing, but she felt his silent censure like a physical thing, tautening the small space between them. And, of course, why shouldn’t he be surprised? Disappointed even? Here she was, admitting that she didn’t know if she’d miss her own country! She opened her mouth, wanting to explain the jumble of confused emotions and disappointed dreams to him, but nothing came out. What could she say, and what would this man want to hear?
Yet somehow, strangely, she felt as if he might understand. Or was that simply the wishful thinking of a woman with too many disappointed dreams?
‘I’ll miss Zaraq, of course,’ she said, after a moment, wanting, needing to explain. ‘And my father. And friends…’ She trailed off, unable to put words to the nameless longing for something else, something deeper and more instrinsically a part of herself, something that had no name. Something, she realised despondently, she wasn’t even sure she’d ever had.
‘It is a strange time,’ Aarif said after a moment. His voice was still neutral, yet in the shadowy darkness Kalila saw him lift his hand and drop it again—almost as if he’d been going to touch her. Her heart beat harder at the thought. ‘Once you are in Calista, you will feel more settled. The people will welcome you.’ He paused before adding, his voice still flat, ‘I’m sure they will love you.’
The people. Not Zakari. And what of him? What of Aarif? The question was ludicrous, so ridiculous and inappropriate that under the cover of darkness Kalila’s cheeks warmed. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I suppose I sound like I am full of self-pity, but I hope—I know—’ she swallowed painfully ‘—that it will be better with time.’
‘Time heals most things,’ Aarif agreed, yet Kalila felt he was saying something else, something far from a platitude. Most things…but not all.
Aarif stirred on the bench and Kalila knew he wanted to leave. The night had grown quiet, their conversation too close. Yet the thought of his departure alarmed her, and she held out one hand, the moonlight bathing her skin in lambent silver. ‘Tell me about your brother.’
The words fell in the silence like the pebbles from her hand, disturbing the tranquil stillness. Kalila wished she hadn’t spoken. Why had she asked about Zakari? She didn’t want to know about him. She didn’t even want to think about him.
But you need to know. He is going to be your husband.
‘What kind of man is he?’ she asked, her voice trailing to a whisper. It shamed her that she had to ask. She felt as if she’d exposed something to Aarif without even realising it, as much as if she’d shown him that faded photograph in her lingerie drawer.
‘He is a good man,’ Aarif said after a long moment when he’d remained still and silent, his head half turned away from her. ‘A better man than I am. And a good king.’ Kalila started at his admission. A better man than I am. Why? What kind of man are you? She wanted to ask, but she was silent, and Aarif finished, ‘He will do his duty.’
His duty. Highest praise, no doubt, from a man like Aarif, but to Kalila it had the ring of condemnation. She wanted so much more than duty. Summoning her spirit, she tried for a laugh. ‘Can’t you tell me more than that?’ she asked, keeping her voice light.
Aarif turned to look at her, his eyes and face carefully expressionless. ‘I fear I cannot tell you the kinds of things a bride would like to know about her groom. And in truth, you will know soon enough.’
‘I thought he would have come. To see me.’ Kalila bit her lip, wishing the words back. Then she shrugged, a sudden spark of defiance firing through her. ‘He should have.’
Aarif stiffened, or at least Kalila felt as if he had. Perhaps he hadn’t moved at all. Yet she knew she’d gone too far; she’d almost insulted King Zakari. Her husband. She closed her eyes, opening them once more when Aarif spoke.
‘It was my fault that you were expecting King Zakari,’ he told her flatly. ‘I should have explained the arrangements before my arrival.’
Kalila glanced at him, curiosity flaring within her. Aarif held himself rigidly now, and although he was still unmoving she felt his tension emanating from him in forceful waves. He was not the kind of man to make such a mistake, she reflected, so what had happened? Why was he taking the blame?
‘It is no matter,’ she said after a moment. She could hardly explain how much it had mattered, or why. ‘King Zakari will be waiting for me in Calista. The wedding has already been delayed several times—what is a few more days?’
‘It seems,’ Aarif replied, his voice carefully neutral, ‘that it matters to you.’
Kalila looked away. That afternoon, it had mattered. She had been disappointed, hurt, like the child at a birthday party Aarif had thought her, waiting for a present only to find it empty inside. Yet now she felt worse; she was numb, indifferent. She’d finally realised there had never been a present, or even a façade of a present. There had only been an empty box.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
‘Princess Kalila, I should go.’ Aarif rose from the bench. ‘It is not seemly for us to be like this.’
‘Why not? We shall be as brother and sister in a matter of weeks,’ Kalila replied, raising her eyebrows in challenge.
Aarif paused. ‘True, but you know as well as I do that in countries such as ours men and women who are unattached do not spend time alone together, unchaperoned.’
‘Are you unattached?’ The question slipped out without much thought, yet Kalila realised she wanted to know. He wasn’t married, but was there a woman? A girlfriend, a mistress, a lover?
She shouldn’t ask; she didn’t need to know. Yet she wanted to. Something about that still, considering gaze, the carefully neutral tone, made her want to know the man that must be hidden underneath.
‘Yes.’ Aarif made to turn. ‘And now I must bid you goodnight. I trust you can find your way safely back to the palace?’
‘Yes—’ Half-turned as he was, the moonlight bathing his cheek in silver, illuminating that livid line from brow to jaw, Kalila found another question slipping out. ‘How did you get that scar?’
Aarif jerked in surprise, and then he turned slowly to face her. From the surprised—almost trapped—look on his face Kalila realised it was not a question she should have asked. It was not one Aarif wanted to answer. Still, she waited, her breath caught in her throat, her mind a flurry of questions.
‘A foolish accident,’ Aarif finally said, stiffly, as if he were not used to explaining. Perhaps he wasn’t.
‘It must have been.’ She regarded him solemnly, longing to lighten the moment, to make him smile again—somehow. ‘You look as if someone came at you with a scimitar,’ she added, letting a teasing note enter her voice. ‘Did you win?’ She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.
After an endless moment Aarif’s mouth curved in a tiny, reluctant smile. That hint of humour caused Kalila’s heart to lurch, her insides to roil in a confused jumble, for suddenly he did not seem like the man he’d been before. Suddenly he seemed like someone else entirely. Someone she wanted to know, the man underneath she’d wondered about coming to the fore.
‘Would you believe me,’ he asked, ‘if I told you I took on three camel rustlers by myself?’
His gaze was steady on hers, his mouth still curved. Kalila smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, I would.’
And suddenly the moment of levity took on a deeper, disquieting meaning; suddenly something was stretching between them, winding around them, drawing them closer though neither of them moved.
Aarif’s eyes held hers and she didn’t look away. She reached one hand out in farewell, and to her surprise Aarif clasped it, his fingers, dry and cool, wrapping around hers, sending a jolt of startling awareness along her arm and through her whole body.
Her fingers tightened on his, and as the moment stretched on—too long—neither one of them let go. Neither of them, Kalila felt, wanted to. She should have pulled her hand away. Aarif should have loosened his grip.
Yet neither of them did, and the moment stretched on suspended and endless, as they remained, linked by their clasped fingers, holding each other’s gaze with a silent, suppressed longing. Kalila felt a clamour of different emotions rise within her: the need to be understood, cherished. Loved. The idea, strange and impossible, that this man could be the one who would.
Then, as if rousing himself from a dream, Aarif shook his head, the light in his eyes replaced by an even more disquieting bleakness, his mouth returning to its familiar, compressed line. He dropped her hand so suddenly Kalila’s arm swung down helplessly in the darkness, landing in her lap with a thud. She curled her fingers, now burning with the memory of his touch, against her thigh as Aarif turned away.
‘Goodnight, Princess,’ he said, and disappeared silently into the darkness of the garden.
CHAPTER THREE
BY THE time Kalila awoke the next morning the city was alive with excitement and activity. She could sense it from the window of her dressing room, which faced east towards Makaris. She smelled it on the wind carried from the city, the scents of frying meat and spices, felt it in the air as if it were a tangible thing.
Kalila felt an answering excitement in herself, although her mind skittered away from its source. She was not looking forward to her marriage, yet she found herself eagerly anticipating the journey to Calista. With Aarif.
Stop. She shouldn’t think like this, want like this. Yet the desires she felt were formless, nameless, and Kalila knew it was better for them to stay that way. Safer. In a fortnight, she would marry Zakari. There was no escaping that fate. Yet if she could afford herself a few brief, harmless moments of pleasure before then—
Stop.
‘Kalila! It is time you dressed!’ Juhanah bustled in, clapping her hands as she beamed in excitement. She would be accompanying her to Calista, and would stay for as long as it took for Kalila to settle.
And how long would that be? Kalila wondered, feeling the familiar despair settle over her once more. Days, months, years? Ever?
‘Kalila, my princess.’ Juhanah knelt by her side as Kalila sat on the window seat, one shoulder propped against the stone frame. ‘It is time. Prince Aarif wishes your bags to be loaded, everything is prepared.’
‘Already?’ She turned away from the window. Her clothes and personal items had already been packed; many of them she’d left in boxes, shipped from England. She did not have too much to bring, clothes, a few books and photographs, nothing more. They felt like scraps being brought to a feast, a humble and pathetic offering.
‘Juhanah, I don’t want to go.’ The words tumbled from her and her lips trembled. She pressed them together tightly, willed herself not to cry. Tears, now, would do no good. Still, she had to speak. She needed to give voices to the nameless terrors clamouring within her. ‘I don’t want to marry him,’ she whispered.
Juhanah was silent for a moment. Kalila couldn’t look at her; she felt too ashamed. ‘Oh, ya daanaya,’ Juhanah finally said, and rose to put her arms around Kalila. Kalila rested her head against Juhanah’s pillowy bosom, let herself be comforted like a child. ‘Of course you are afraid now. If King Zakari had come, perhaps it would be different. It is a hard thing, to travel to a strange country and wed a strange man.’