She couldn’t get her head—her heart—around the fact that her husband-to-be hadn’t bothered to show up. Would he even be at the wedding? Hadn’t he realised she’d been waiting, wondering, hoping…?
Or had he even bothered to think about her at all?
She swallowed the bubble of hysterial laughter that threatened to rise up and spill out. Her father was speaking, his voice low and melodious, inviting this man—who was he? Kalila’s brain scrambled for the remembered words, fragments—Prince Aarif. Zakari’s younger brother, sent on this glad errand. Her lips twisted cynically, but of course no one could see her smile behind this damned veil.
Her fingers clenched at her side. She longed to rip off the veil, destroy the entire charade, because that was all it was. A charade, a façade. False.
A piece of theatre, and she no longer wanted the role.
She wanted to run, to run and never stop until she was somewhere safe and different, somewhere she could be herself—whoever that was—and people would be glad.
Where, she wondered hopelessly, was that place? She didn’t think she had found it yet.
Her father had risen, and Kalila knew this was her cue to gracefully withdraw. This pretty little part had been scripted, rehearsed. She bowed, lowering her head with its heavy plait and awkward veil, and backed slowly out of the room, trying not to trip over the embroidered hem of her kaftan. She couldn’t wait to get out of this get-up, to be free.
She tore the veil from her face as soon as she was out of the room, grabbing a fistful of the kaftan to clear her feet as she strode to her bedroom. Juhanah followed, tutting anxiously.
‘The fabric—it is delicate!’ she protested, reaching for the veil Kalila had fisted in one hand.
‘I don’t care,’ she snapped, and Juhanah clucked again, prising the veil from Kalila’s fingers and smoothing it carefully.
‘You are disappointed, of course. But the king is a busy man, with many demands. It is just as well you become accustomed to this early, ya daanaya.’
‘Even before we’ve met?’ Kalila heard the sarcastic edge to her voice and was glad. She needed to vent her feelings, her frustration, for Juhanah was right, she was disappointed. Disappointed and hurt.
And she had no reason to be, because she had never thought Zakari loved her. How could he? So what had she been hoping for? She didn’t know, couldn’t answer, yet she felt deep in her belly, her soul, that something had been irretrievably lost today. She just didn’t know what it was.
Back in the sanctuary of her bedroom she took a deep, steadying breath. She knew there was no point in acting like a petulant child; she was a woman, with a woman’s life ahead of her. A woman’s duty, a woman’s burden.
Her mind slid back to the night eight months ago, alone in her Cambridge flat, when she could have walked away. She could have cut herself off from her father, her family, her country and culture. A small part of her would have welcomed it.
Yet she hadn’t, and she knew in her heart she never would have. Despite the endless, aching uncertainty and regret, she had a duty to her family. To herself.
And yet. And yet she hadn’t expected this. This hurt, this disappointment, so fresh and raw and painful.
She had been nourishing dreams without even realising it. Those shadowy dreams took form now as she acknowledged her own folly. She’d wanted Zakari to come here, to be eager for this day, and then to be speechless at the sight of her. She’d wanted him to be enchanted, enamoured, in love.
And all without even knowing her! She really was a fool. A child, to believe in such childish dreams, such fairy tales. To have let herself hope even when she thought she was being realistic, responsible. She’d fooled herself.
Kalila sighed wearily as she stared at her painted face in the mirror. A fan whirred lazily above her but the heat of midday was oppressive, made even more so by her heavy garments.
‘Please help me, Juhanah,’ she said. She pulled at the kaftan. ‘I want to get this off.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Juhanah soothed, hurrying to her side. ‘You will want to rest, to be fresh for this evening.’
Kalila frowned. ‘Why? What’s happening this evening?’
‘Did you not hear? Your father invited Prince Aarif to dine with you both tonight. Informal, he said.’ Juhanah’s smile glinted knowingly. ‘No kaftan, no hijab.’
Kalila breathed a sigh of relief as she pushed the heavy mass of hair away from her neck. ‘Good.’
Juhanah slipped the kaftan from Kalila’s shoulders. ‘You know this was your mother’s?’
‘It was?’ She turned in disbelief. ‘I never saw her wear anything like it.’
‘No, she didn’t, not very often.’ Juhanah ran one finger along the gold thread. ‘But she wore this to her own engagement party—your father chose it as a wedding gift. She looked very beautiful.’
Kalila tried to imagine her mother, tall, slender, blonde, wearing the outfit she had. Weighed down by its heaviness and expectations. She wondered how her mother had felt wearing it. Had she been as stifled and suppressed as Kalila had? Or had she seen it only as a costume, and a beautiful one at that?
Her mother had chosen to marry Bahir, she knew. It had been, against all odds, a love match.
So why, Kalila wondered as Juhanah quietly left the room and she stretched out restlessly on her bed, couldn’t she have the same?
Surprisingly, she slept, although she’d felt too anxious and upset to even close her eyes at first. Somehow she fell into an uneasy sleep, where even her dreams were tinted with a vague unhappiness.
When she awoke, the sun was low in the sky, and the breeze blowing in from the window was blessedly cool.
Kalila pushed her hair away from her eyes and moved to the window. The sun was a fiery ball of orange, sending vivid streaks of light across a sky just darkening to dusk. It was a stark yet beautiful sight, and one she never tired of. She’d missed sunsets like these in England. She’d missed the purity of light and air, the violent brightness of the colours.
A glance at the clock told her she needed to ready herself quickly. The woman Prince Aarif saw tonight would be nothing like the vision of traditional womanhood he’d seen this afternoon, Kalila would make sure of that. The time for pageantry and play-acting was over. And besides, she reminded herself as she stepped into a scalding shower, there was no one to impress. Zakari wasn’t even here.
She scrubbed away the kohl and the red lipstick, the scents of jasmine and sandalwood. She scrubbed until her face was clean and bare and her skin smelled only of soap.
She dressed in a simple cocktail dress, modest by Western standards, although glaringly different from her earlier outfit. It was a simple silk sheath in pale lavender, skimming her body and ending mid-calf. She slipped on a pair of matching pumps and pulled her hair up into a quick and careless chignon. The only nod to make-up was a bit of lip gloss.
Taking a deep breath, wondering just why nerves had started their restless fluttering once more, Kalila headed downstairs.
Prince Aarif was already in the palace’s smaller, less formal dining room, drink in hand, when she arrived. Kalila paused on the threshold, taking in the table set intimately for three, and then the prince standing by the window, his back half to her. Her father was nowhere in sight.
She hadn’t given their unexpected guest more than a passing thought since she’d seen him that afternoon; it had been Zakari’s absence that had occupied her thoughts rather than Aarif’s presence.
Yet now she found her gaze resting on him, sweeping over him in open curiosity. He wore a Western suit in charcoal grey and it fitted his long, lithe form with gracious ease. He looked so different in these clothes than in his bisht, Kalila realised, so much more approachable and human. She wondered if she did as well.
Then, as if he sensed her presence, he turned to face her fully, and Kalila drew in a breath at the sight of his face, his eyes curiously blank although his lips were curved in a smile of greeting, the scar curving along his cheek. He looked formal, forbidding, almost angry even though he smiled.
Kalila forced herself to smile back. ‘Good evening, Prince Aarif.’
Aarif nodded once. ‘Princess.’
She stepped into the room, strangely conscious of the fact that they were alone, although even that was a fantasy. Servants were within earshot and her father would undoubtedly arrive in a few minutes. ‘Did you have a good afternoon?’ she asked, and heard the bright falsity in her own voice.
Aarif’s mouth flickered in something not quite a smile. ‘An enlightening one,’ he replied, and took a sip of his drink. He gestured to her own empty hand. ‘Would you like a drink?’
As if on cue, a servant came forward and Kalila asked for a glass of fruit juice. She wanted to keep her head clear.
‘I’m afraid I don’t remember you,’ Kalila said, smiling ruefully. ‘You must be Zakari’s younger brother, but I know he has many, and sisters too…’
‘Yes, there are seven of us.’ Aarif’s hard gaze settled on her as he added, ‘I remember you. You were quite young at that engagement party, weren’t you? You wore a white dress, with a bow in your hair.’
‘I was twelve,’ Kalila replied, her voice coming out in almost a whisper before she cleared her throat. She was touched—and unsettled—that he remembered her dress, her hair.