Protecting the Desert Princess(69)

                ‘I knew the consequences when I ran away,’ she said. ‘I knew what would happen when I got back.’

                ‘And was it worth it?’

                It was the only time the King had glimpsed a flash of tears.

                ‘Yes.’

                * * *

                She was back, and plans had been made for Princess Layla to choose her husband tomorrow.

                She was well, she was safe, she had returned.

                The palace felt like a funeral parlour though.

                The King looked out to the gardens below his study and saw Layla walking when usually she would have run.

                She looked cold, even though the evening sun was still blazing before dipping below the horizon.

                ‘How has she been?’

                He turned when Jamila entered; he had asked to speak with her.

                ‘She is very polite, she is doing everything that has been asked of her and she has given me no cheek—but she is very angry with me. I know that, even if she doesn’t say so.’ Jamila started to cry. ‘I am sorry for interfering…you might never have known.’

                ‘You were scared for her,’ Fahid said. ‘You were right to call me.’

                He looked to the woman who had been like a mother to his child—Layla’s only parent when he had not been able to be one.

                ‘You were brave to go against Zahid and call me.’

                He sat down, for he could not stand to look out of the window and see Layla so unhappy.

                Fahid closed his eyes. He wanted this sorted. ‘I have not got long…’

                ‘Don’t say that, Your Highness.’

                ‘It is true, though. I just want to know she will be taken care of.’

                He looked over, because again Jamila was crying.

                ‘Jamila…?’

                ‘I don’t want you to die, Fahid.’

                She was no longer speaking with the King but with the man who had come to her at night a year after his wife had died.

                The man who had made love to her as Layla slept in her crib beside the bed.

                The man who still came to her at times, even now.

                Times that must never be discussed, for she was a servant—that was all.

                Yet the King and Layla felt like Jamila’s family, and she wanted more time with him—especially now.

                ‘Perhaps the treatments will give me more time,’ he said, and took his lover in his arms.

                And if they did give him more time, Fahid thought, then perhaps he should use it wisely.

                * * *

                Fahid watched as Layla pushed her hashwet-al-ruz around her plate. It was her favourite—spicy rice with minced lamb and mint—and Jamila had told the kitchen to add extra roasted pistachios, which Layla loved.