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Something inside her gave way, weakening her when she would have liked to be strong.
Needed to be strong...
* * *
Tariq glanced at his companion, aware of the complications he was undoubtedly bringing into his life by insisting she stay in the palace. She would be accommodated in the women’s house, which he knew, both from his early childhood within its confines and from sisters, aunts and cousins, was a hotbed of intrigue, gossip, innuendo and often scandal.
But if she was family this was where she belonged.
And if the Ta’wiz was genuine, and the thrill he’d felt as he’d touched it suggested it was, then this was where it, too, belonged.
She was looking all around her, taking in the forbidding walls, a small frown teasing her delicate eyebrows.
‘The gold on the walls?’ she said. ‘I took it to be decoration—a bit odd on a fortress but still.’
She paused and turned to look at him.
‘But it’s script, isn’t it? That lovely flowing Arabic script? What does it say?’
He could lie—tell her anything—tell her it said ‘Welcome’, but the memory of his father’s anger as he’d marched, often dragging his eight-year-old son, around the fortress walls, demanding the words be written faster, was imprinted in his mind.
As were the words!
He looked out at them now, as if to read them, although they were written on his heart.
‘They say,’ he explained slowly—reluctantly—“The head must rule the heart.”’
‘All the way round?’ the visitor asked, obviously astonished.
Tariq shrugged.
‘It is my father’s motto and there may be variations on the theme,’ he said, trying hard for casual while remembered anger tore at him. ‘Here and there he may have put, “The heart must follow the head,” but you get the gist of it.’
‘And he wrote it all the way around?’
The woman, Lila, was wide-eyed in disbelief.
‘‘And inside too,’ Tariq told her, finally summoning up a small smile as the silliness of the whole thing struck him. ‘He claimed it was an ancient ancestral ruling that had kept the tribe in power for so many generations. But in truth I think it was to annoy First Mother, who had the temerity to complain when he took a second wife.’
Ya lahwey, why was he telling this woman the story? Didn’t the British have a saying about washing dirty linen in public? Wasn’t that what he was doing?
But the pain he’d felt for his mother—First Mother—had imprinted that time like a fiery brand in his memory and still it burned when he remembered it.
Beside him he heard the visitor murmuring, and just made out the faintly spoken words—‘The head must rule the heart.’
‘Maybe,’ she finally said, loudly enough for him to hear, ‘it is a good rule to live by. Do you follow it?’
You don’t have to answer that, his ruling head told him, but as she’d asked...
‘For my sins, I do,’ he admitted, as they waited for the big gate to be opened. ‘My head told me that the country needed doctors more than it needed more princes, and children’s doctors in particular, to take health facilities to those who live far from the city.’
He paused.
He’d said enough.
But as the visitor gasped at the vision inside the palace walls—his father’s vision—he felt compelled to finish what he’d been saying.
‘It has caused a rift between us, my father and I.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly, but then she looked around and he had to smile at the astonishment on the woman’s beautiful face. The old walls of the fort might remain, but inside was an earthly paradise made possible by the unlikely combination of oil and water. Oil revenue paid for all the water in his land, paid to have it desalinated from the ocean, so once what had been desert could blossom with astonishing beauty.
‘But this is unbelievable,’ the woman, Lila, whispered, turning her head this way and that as she took in the formal gardens, the bloom-covered bowers, the fountains and hedges, and carefully laid-out mosaic paths.
‘It has been my father’s life work,’ Tariq told her, pride in his voice hiding the tug he felt in his heart as he thought of his father, ailing now, distanced from him, heart-sore over Khalil, a son from his second wife. Once he, Tariq, had chosen to do medicine Khalil had been brought up to be ruler, trained almost from birth. But now Khalil was ill with leukaemia his father was caught in a tussle over his choice of a successor should Khalil not survive.
Wanting Tariq to change his mind but too proud to beg...
Tariq shook away the exhaustion threatening to engulf him. He’d get his visitor settled, sleep for a few hours, then return to the hospital. He’d already assigned a staff member to act as guide and liaison for the new doctor but of course she was at the hospital, not here.
He’d get...he paused, his mind ranging through numerous sisters, half-sisters, female cousins and friends... Barirah.
Khalil’s oldest half-sister, faithful and devoted like her name. Looking after Dr Halliday would take her mind off her brother’s illness and her devastation that her own bone-marrow donation had failed to cure him.
The vehicle pulled up at the base of the shallow steps leading up to the covered loggia that surrounded the entire building. While the driver held the door for the newcomer, Tariq strode ahead, summoning a servant and sending her to find his half-sister.
Dr Halliday was following more slowly, turning as she came up each step to look back at the garden, as if fascinated by its extravagant beauty. On reaching the top, she glanced around at the array of shoes and sandals outside the front door, and he saw her smile as she slipped off the flat shoes she was wearing.
‘It’s like picture books I’ve seen,’ she said, turning the smile towards him. ‘All the shoes of different shapes and sizes, all the sandals, outside the door.’
It was only because he hadn’t slept that her smile caught at something in his chest, and he was relieved when Barirah appeared, pausing by his side to kiss his cheek, asking about her brother, already knowing there’d be no new news.
‘I need you to look after our guest,’ he told her. ‘She is coming to work at the hospital but I want her living here.’
Barirah raised her eyebrows, but Tariq found he couldn’t explain.
‘Come,’ he said, leading her to the edge of the paved area where the newcomer still gazed at the garden. ‘Dr Halliday, this is Barirah, my sister—’
‘One of his many sisters and only a half one at that,’ Barirah interrupted him. ‘And I’m sure you have a better name than Dr Halliday.’
The visitor smiled, and held out her hand.
‘I am Lila,’ she said, her smile fading, turning to a slight frown, as she looked more closely at Barirah.
And seeing them together, Barirah now wearing an almost identical expression, Tariq cursed under his breath, blaming his tiredness for not realising the full extent of the complications that would arise—had arisen, in fact—by bringing Lila Halliday to the palace. Better by far that she’d stayed at the hospital where she’d just have been another doctor in a white coat, rather than possibly a first cousin to a whole host of family, not to mention niece to Second Mother.
And wasn’t that going to open a can of worms!
‘Who is she?’ Barirah was demanding, moving from Lila to stand in front of Tariq, easing him back so she could speak privately.
‘She might be your cousin,’ was all Tariq could manage.
‘Nalini’s daughter? And you’ve brought her here? Are you mad? Can’t you imagine how Second Mother’s going to react to this? I might not remember much about that time but the tales of her reaction to Nalini’s disappearance have become modern legends. Second Mother burnt her clothes on a pyre in the garden and our father had to build a fountain because nothing would grow where they had burnt.’
Tariq touched his half-sister’s shoulder.
‘Lila came looking for her family and I think that might be us,’ he said gently. ‘Isn’t that enough reason for us to welcome her?’
Barirah rolled her eyes but turned back to look at the visitor, still standing at the edge of the loggia.
‘You’re right,’ she said, and heaved a deep, deep sigh. ‘She’s family so she’s welcome, but...’
She turned back to look at Tariq.
‘You’d better be around to protect her. Don’t you dare just dump her on me and expect me to run interference with Second Mother. I’m already a pariah in her eyes because I refuse to marry.’
Lila had guessed the conversation the Sheikh and the young woman who looked so like her had been about her, but what could she do?
Put on her shoes and leave the complex? Walk out through the beautiful gardens and the forbidding stone walls and—
Then what?
Besides, there was this nonsense about the Ta’wiz—about her mother being a thief.
Could she walk away from that?
Definitely not!
And being here in the palace, she might be able to find out what had happened way back then, learn things about her mother—and possibly her father too. And wasn’t that why she’d come to Karuba?
She turned as the pair came towards her.
The woman called Barirah smiled at her.
‘Tariq tells me we are probably cousins—that you are probably Nalini’s daughter,’ she said, in a softly modulated voice. ‘So, as family, you are more than welcome.’
She hesitated then leaned forward and kissed Lila on both cheeks.
The gesture brought tears to Lila’s eyes. Tiredness from the journey, she was sure, but Barirah must have seen them for she put her arms around Lila’s shoulders and drew her into a hug.
‘Come, I will find you a room and someone to look after you. Tariq, our guest might like some refreshment. She doesn’t need to face the whole family at the moment, so perhaps you could order some lunch for the two of you in the arbour outside the green guest room? I have appointments I can’t miss.’
Ignoring Tariq’s protest that he needed to get back to the hospital, Barirah put her arm around Lila’s shoulders to lead her into the house.
‘I will put you in the green room—it was Nalini’s room but has been redecorated. You might as well know now, because it’s the first bit of gossip that you’ll hear. My mother, who was Nalini’s sister, went mad when Nalini left and destroyed the room and all the belongings she’d left behind. My mother is still bitter, but at least my brother’s illness—he is battling leukaemia—is keeping her fully occupied at the moment.’
The flood of information rattled around in Lila’s head. Jet-lag, she decided. She’d think about it all later.
Think about why the man walking down the marble hall behind them was sending shivers up her spine as well.
It had to be jet-lag...
* * *
‘But it’s beautiful!’
Having led her down innumerable corridors, Barirah had finally opened a very tall, heavy, wooden door to reveal what a first glance seemed like an underwater grotto of some kind.
The ‘green’ used to describe the room was as pale as the shallowest of water running up on a beach on a still day—translucent, barely there, yet as welcoming as nature itself. It manifested itself in the silk on the walls and the slightly darker tone in the soft curtains, held back by ropes of woven gold thread.
The bed stood four-square in the middle of the room, the tall wooden posts holding a canopy of the same material as the curtains, while the bedcover had delicate embroidery, vines and flowers picked out in gold and silver thread.
‘It’s unbelievable!’ Lila whispered, walking across to a small chest of drawers to trace her fingers along the silver filigree design set into the wood. ‘Is this design traditional?’
Barirah smiled.
‘It is the most common motif in our decoration although by no means the only one. It shows the vine that grows over the dunes after rain, and see here...’ delicate fingers traced the pattern ‘...the moonflower.’
It was the palest pink, perhaps more mauve in tone, open like a full moon, a half-open bud beside it, and seeing it pain speared through Lila’s heart and she fell to her knees, her hands reaching out to touch the flowers, to grasp the material and bring it to her face, feeling it against her skin, smelling it...
Barirah knelt beside her, held her, while she cried, then dried her eyes with a clean white tissue.
Lila turned to face her.
‘My mother had a shawl—she wore it over her head and around her shoulders. It was this pattern! Why didn’t I remember? How could I have forgotten that?’
Tariq, in the arbour outside the doors that opened into the garden, had heard the words, heard the anguish in the woman’s voice, and wondered just how hard it must have been for a four-year-old to have lost not only her parents but the world as she had known it.
Barirah was helping Lila to her feet, comforting her with soft words and soothing noises, and he stepped back, showing the servants where to leave the food, then waiting for the two women to appear.
He sat, resting his tired eyes behind closed lids, dozed perhaps, aware he should be seeing his father, telling him of this development but not wanting to put further stresses on their guest.
Had he been less tired, he realised now—too late—he’d have taken her to the hospital, let her get on with her work. Officials could have confiscated the Ta’wiz, verified it, and it could have been returned to the palace, without her.
But even as these thoughts rambled through his exhausted brain, an image of the woman, Nalini’s suspected daughter, hovered behind his eyelids, her dark almond eyes sparking with anger at him, her fingers clinging to the pendant—a last gift from her mother.
No way would she have given it up.
‘He’s been working far too hard.’
Barirah’s voice woke him from the half-dream, woke him as his memories of Lila’s angry eyes had shifted to an image of her soft lips—woke him just in time, really...
The two women joined him in the arbour, Barirah making her apologies for having to leave.
‘But Tariq will take good care of you and, when you are rested, take you to the hospital to show you around.’
She gave Lila a brief kiss on the cheek and departed on silent feet, leaving Tariq to wonder again just how big a mistake he’d made in bringing the woman here.
His guest was eyeing the array of food with almost childlike delight.
