by Charles, Eva
I know we’ll be watched. My most vulnerable moments will be fully on display—perhaps even recorded. Strangers will be aroused by what they see. Perhaps even the crown prince. But I don’t care. Right now, I need Gray and everything he gives me. “You underestimate my stamina.”
Gray reaches behind him, and the lock snicks. “I underestimate nothing,” he says, his eyes burning. “Let’s get you good and dirty, so we can get you clean.”
* * *
After we’ve gotten dirty, then clean, we nap for an hour, which doesn’t leave much time to get ready. It also doesn’t leave too much time to stew about whether the princess will be there tonight.
Fatima comes by at the appointed time to shepherd us to King Khalid’s private residence at the opposite end of the palace. Trippi and Baz don’t accompany us, because as the king’s visitors, he’ll personally vouch for our safety. Considering he can’t trust a soul in the place to get a message to his daughter, I’m skeptical about his ability to protect anyone. It’s a farce, like so much else here.
We’re ushered into a room with several people. Ahmad, I’ve met, but I recognize the others from the photographs I studied. The older man is King Khalid. He’s seventy-eight, but the Parkinson’s tremor makes him seem older and feeble. The crown prince’s half-brother Prince Faud bin Khalid is here, as well as Princess Saher. My heart hammers so hard, I’m grateful for the extra layer the abaya provides. I hold my gaze steady in the direction of the king, but as custom requires, I never look directly into his eyes.
King Khalid greets us through a translator, first Gray and then me. But it’s clear he understands the gist, if not everything, we say. I understand everything he says too. “If there is anything you require while you are in Amidane, it must be brought immediately to my attention.” He nods at Fatima.
The king motions for us to sit, and offers me the seat closest to him. “You have met the crown prince, but have you met Prince Faud and Princess Saher?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“It’s my pleasure, Miss Porter,” the prince says kindly. “I’m scheduled to be in Aman tomorrow, and I won’t be back before you leave. So we’ll just have this evening to get acquainted.”
Prince Faud is younger than Ahmad, and doesn’t have that smug look his brother wears all the time.
After the introductions, Gray and the princes chat animatedly in the corner, and the princess, the king, and I are left mostly alone at the table. Mostly, because staff hovers nearby. Ahmad glances over at us periodically, the way a mother does when she wants to be sure her children are behaving.
“Saher is a lovely name.” It’s trite, but anything to engage her in conversation.
“Thank you,” she replies. “Traditionally, it is a boy’s name. My parents were hoping for a boy and had considered only boys’ names.”
“That is not true,” the king interjects. “You were the light of our lives from the moment you were born. Pure poetry.” He reaches for her hand, and turns to me. “The name we had originally chosen, before she was born, did not do her justice. We wanted something unique. The songs and poetry of Kazem Saher were favorites of ours, and we decided that our beautiful daughter should be named Saher.”
“It might be nothing more than a fairy tale concocted to amuse a young girl, but I never tire of that story.” She brings her father’s shaking hand to her lips and places a small, tender kiss there.
Saher speaks English fluently, although not as flawlessly as her brothers, who studied in the United States and London. She’s charming, but reserved, almost standoffish with me, which could pose a huge problem. Fortunately, tonight, the king bridges the gap with lots of questions for us both.
When the food is served, the boys rejoin us. Gray takes a seat beside me, and Saher watches us carefully, not missing a single interaction. She also eyes Ahmad occasionally. Her gaze flits from Gray, to me, to Ahmad, and back. It’s as though she’s sizing us up, and our relationship to one another. It’s a little off-putting, but it gives me an opportunity to study her unnoticed.
“What will you do while Gray is occupied?” she asks.
It’s an interesting way to phrase the question, but I’m not complaining. I’ll take any and all engagement she offers.
“I’m hoping to visit the World Heritage sites, maybe do a little shopping.” The last thing I need is more things, but according to the briefing book, Saher is a big shopper—it’s one of the few reasons she’s allowed to leave the palace, albeit with guards. “Otherwise, I’ll probably read and do a little yoga.”
“What kind of yoga practice do you have?” she asks, with a sparkle in her voice. She is so much friendlier now that we’ve eaten.
“Right now, my practice is limited to Ashtanga.”
“Hot?”
“I’ve never tried it, but it looks challenging.”
She beams. “It is challenging, but rewarding. If you would like to join me in the morning, I can have someone escort you to the studio. I usually begin my practice at ten, once my son has had breakfast and is with his tutor.”
Oh. My. God. I don’t dare steal even a tiny glimpse at Gray. “That would be wonderful,” I gush. “Thank you.”
The next hour passes quickly. All I can think about is yoga with Saher. An opportunity to have her alone. At least as alone as we will ever be.
When Gray excuses himself, Saher comes around the table and takes his seat. “The studio is just women. We have complete privacy, so wear whatever you would at home. Just cover yourself while on the way to the studio. A mat and everything else you need will be provided.”
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to stretching my muscles. It was a long trip.”
She smiles brightly and nods. If I didn’t know better, I would say that she’s almost as excited as I am. “I will send my maid at ten, to escort you.”
“I can ask Fatima, our attaché, to take me there if it’s easier for you.”
“Fatima?” She raises an eyebrow and her expression is wary. “That’s not necessary. Fatima is a very busy woman.” Clearly there’s bad blood between those two. Saher pauses for a beat and her smile returns. “After, we can enjoy lunch on the terrace, and I will help you decide the best places to shop. Yes?”
Ahmad is watching us closely. I’ve felt his eyes on us since Saher took Gray’s seat. He doesn’t like us chatting. I need to appear less eager so that he doesn’t stop us from getting together.
“Perhaps Miss Porter would prefer to have lunch in the dining room or in the garden,” Ahmad says. “She’s not here to satisfy your insatiable thirst for the West.”
Saher is flushed, but holds her head high. “There are few places for me to visit where I can practice my English—the crown prince is correct, though. I love to hear about Western culture.” She turns to her brother. “About all cultures. Forgive me, Miss Porter.”
I don’t want to get involved in a pissing match between the crown prince and his sister, who he clearly controls, but I want to signal some solidarity with her, and show some small kindness. Not just because I need her friendship, but because her brother is a total asswipe.
“I’ll tell you everything you want to know about American culture, if, in exchange, you’ll share the beautiful Amidane culture with me. I read several books to prepare for the trip, but it’s not the same as hearing stories from someone who loves their country.”
She flashes me a grateful smile.
“Saher,” Ahmad says, like the condescending bastard he is, “you should sleep if you plan on having a full day tomorrow. I heard the little one was up several times last night.”
There is a flash of fear in her eyes when Ahmad mentions her son. “His stomach was upset, but he’s better now.”
“Weak stomach. Must be his father’s genes.”
Saher doesn’t respond to her brother, but she doesn’t cower, either.
Ahmad is lucky we’re on his turf, because otherwise I’d grab him by th
e neck and kick him so hard in the balls, having a male heir would no longer be a concern for him.
The princess stands and crouches beside her father to say good night. She kisses his forehead, and he murmurs something that sounds like a blessing. When she stands, her hands smooth the wrinkles from her abaya. “Good evening,” she says politely, meeting only my eyes, before making her way out of the room.
Not long after, the king excuses himself, and that’s our cue to say good night too.
37
Delilah
“Wow,” I say, leaving the studio. “My muscles are going to be screaming later. That was a great workout.” And the fact that Saher and I were in the same room sharing an experience adds to the exhilaration. “Heat makes it a completely different experience.”
“Screaming?” She looks perplexed.
“In pain,” I explain.
“Ahh, yes. It is exhausting and energizing at the same time.”
Saher leads me into an area where there are showers, changing rooms, and a lap pool behind a glass wall. I study the area, looking for cameras and opportunities. I see neither, but they’re here—at least the cameras. “Do you practice every day?”
“Hot yoga, two or three times a week,” she replies. “The other days I do Pilates or a gentler yoga practice.”
“Would you mind if I join you while we’re here?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I realize I might have been so forward as to be impolite. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to intrude on your routine.”
“I would enjoy the company. Normally the class is larger, but everyone is on holiday. It is quite lonely the month they are away.” Saher hands me a bottle of water and a fresh towel. “I should have mentioned to bring a change of clothes to shower. I always go back to my room after class and I did not think.
“There is a spa through that door,” she adds. “You can book a massage, or a manicure, or any beauty treatment you would like.”
We mop up some of the perspiration and cool down a bit, mostly in silence. I’m not sure she remembers inviting me to lunch last night. The little stint on the boat means that we’ll have less time here, but I don’t want to be too pushy. It could backfire.
I take my abaya off a coat hook just inside the entrance to the studio, pausing for a second, to be sure that the one I take is mine. Unlike the ones we wore last night that had some embroidery, these are plain, and identical.
Saher watches me with a bit of mischief in her eyes. “They all look the same.” She laughs.
They all look the same. Yes. This might be useful in delivering a message. But I can’t put all my eggs in one basket. I need to be open to other possibilities.
“But mine,” Saher explains, “usually has a small drawing or a note from my son, now that he has started to write.” She pulls out a piece of paper from the deep pocket, with three stick figures: one large figure, a medium-sized one, and a smaller one that appears to be a child. It’s a family. They’re smiling and holding hands. A little boy’s dream that has no connection to reality. “He always leaves me a little surprise.”
“It’s adorable. He’s talented.” I’m not taken with children’s drawings or their other antics, but I’ve learned that making a fuss over a beloved child is expected, and I need to make friends with this woman.
“I will send Raksha back to your room with you. She will wait while you shower and rest. At one thirty, we will have lunch.”
My brain is scattered in a dozen different directions, sifting through scenarios that might allow me to pass a message to her, and I almost miss the part about lunch.
“I would love to have lunch with you, but if you need Raksha—I don’t want to impose. Would you prefer if Fatima escorted me to your suite at one thirty?” I gauge her reaction carefully. Like last night, she stiffens at the mention of Fatima.
“I would not prefer. I will send Raksha. You can trust her.”
But apparently not Fatima.
We part at the end of the hall. Trippi, Raksha, and I go in one direction, and the princess in another.
* * *
Gray is nowhere to be found when we get back to the rooms. When he left this morning, he said he’d be gone until late afternoon, but I’m a little disappointed anyway. All the sneaking around like teenagers and pretending we’re not sharing a bed has made my hormones explode. Either that, or I’m an exhibitionist at heart. I don’t think so.
Raksha tidies up the sitting area while waiting for me. She’s quiet, and I don’t ask her any of the millions of questions I have about the princess and the royal family, because that would be sure to make her uncomfortable, and maybe alienate Saher.
She says a few words to staff we pass along the way, but the palace staff are mostly migrants, and they speak to one another in a dialect I’m struggling to understand. We also pass numerous soldiers along the way to Princess Saher’s quarters. Some are more circumspect about ogling than others. I miss my weapon.
When we arrive, Raksha pulls a key out of her pocket, and unlocks the door.
I follow her inside.
“Welcome,” Saher says, coming into a main room to greet me. A little boy is on her heels, hiding behind her legs.
My heart clenches as soon as I see him. This is the child we’re trying to save. This small, harmless boy and his mother are prisoners. They deserve to have their story heard.
She steps aside, taking his hand. “Prince Amir bin Jalaal, please meet Miss Delilah Mae Porter. She is our guest.”
He has a head of dark hair and a shy smile. The formality is stiff, but as soon as the introduction is over, she crouches and plants a kiss on the crown of his head. “Just a few more minutes with your tutor,” she assures her son. “Then you may play. There is a surprise if you behave while I visit with our guest.”
Raksha raises her brow and grins at him. It’s genuine and affectionate, and I’m certain they adore each other. Although it’s too early to trust her. The petite maid scoots the boy back through the doorway he entered while he asks about the surprise. Listening to him ask about the surprise makes me smile. It’s exactly what I would do.
“Are your muscles screaming?” Saher asks impishly.
“Soon.”
“We are all women,” she says, helping me remove my abaya. “Soon Amir’s tutor will be a man,” she sighs, “but until then, we are free to dress as we like here.”
She hands the black robe to another young woman, who appears out of nowhere. “It’s not necessary for you to wear the abaya in the palace, provided you dress modestly, but still you choose to wear it.”
She’s probing, but I suspect it’s more out of curiosity than anything else. “It’s a privilege to be a guest of the king, and I want to respect your customs.” And the more respectful I am, the better my chances of success.
“When in Rome,” she quips.
I’m taken aback for a second, and don’t respond immediately.
“Did I confuse the proverb? My English is not always on point. Or my Italian.” She chuckles.
“No, it’s absolutely correct. Look at you,” I tease, “a woman of the world.”
We share a laugh, and she glows.
“Let’s sit on the terrace. It’s peaceful there.”
Like everything else in the palace, the terrace and courtyard are lush and manicured, with a fountain rivaling the Trevi itself. It’s difficult to believe we’re in the desert.
Raksha brings juice and dates, and coffee so rich and potent, I might never sleep again.
“I have something for you.” I pull a wrapped package from my purse. It’s one of the gifts I brought along to be used as a small thank-you. “It’s a compact made by silversmiths in Charleston, where I live,” I explain while she unwraps the package. “It’s designed to look like the famous gates made by Philip Simmons.” I tell her about the gates, with their heart shapes that grace buildings all over the city.
She smiles wistfully. “Such a romantic notion, gates of hearts.”
“
They’re quite beautiful. You’ll have to come visit and see for yourself.”
Saher blinks a few times, and takes a sip of coffee. “You are soon to be betrothed,” she shakes her head, “engaged to Gray?”
For some reason, this embarrasses me. It’s almost as though she sees how much I want him—but engaged? I don’t think so. “No.” I shake my head. “Gray and I are still getting to know one another. He’s special, but it’s too early to discuss the future.”
She cradles the glass of coffee between her hands, smiling wistfully. “He loves you.”
My immediate reaction is to push back on that ridiculous remark, but I’m more measured, and shrug instead. This is what we want people to believe, after all.
“My mother and father loved each other in a romantic way. It is uncommon in my world.”
According to the briefing book, Saher’s mother died unexpectedly, although the US government believes the crown prince is responsible for his stepmother’s death. She had a lot of influence over her husband, which didn’t sit well with the prince.
“Yesterday, when we were with the king, I saw how Gray gazed at you, and how your eyes were soft when you looked at him. It was like a movie.”
I feel my cheeks warm, but I don’t let myself get side-tracked by her fantasy.
“I was not intruding—it is just—you are very beautiful, and I was uncertain if you were here for the crown prince’s enjoyment. But you have no interest in Ahmad. I saw that too.”
She’s right about that. My only interest in Ahmad is watching him burn. “You’re protective of Princess Noura.”
“Have you met Noura?”
I shake my head.
“She and I are friends. We were once good friends.” Her brow is knit tight. “But I am, how do you say, like poison.”
“Toxic.”
“Yes. Toxic. Princess Noura keeps her distance. I do not blame her. She has herself and her daughters to think about. She will need all the goodwill she can garner to deal with the prince when it comes time. Amadi women do not have the same freedoms that men enjoy, but we make up for it by forming strong bonds with each other.”