LITMIR.BIZ

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Clemira and Nakia this afternoon. Surely Emir should not care about the neatness of her robe? He should expect that if the nanny was doing her job properly she would be less than immaculate in appearance. But, again, what would Emir know about the goings-on in the nursery? He hadn’t been in to visit his daughters for weeks.

      Amy changed into a fresh robe and retied her shoulder-length blonde hair into a neat ponytail. Then she covered her hair with a length of darker blue silk, arranging the cloth around her neck and leaving the end to trail over her shoulder. She wore no make-up but, as routinely as most women might check their lipstick, Amy checked to see that the scar low on her neck was covered by the silk. She hated how, in any conversation, eyes were often drawn to it, and more than that she hated the inevitable questions that followed.

      The accident and its aftermath were something she would far rather forget than discuss.

      ‘They are too fussy with their food,’ Fatima said as Amy walked back into the nursery.

      Amy suppressed a smile as Clemira pulled a face and then grabbed at the spoon Fatima was offering and threw it to the floor.

      ‘They just need to be cajoled,’ Amy explained. ‘They haven’t eaten this before.’

      ‘They need to know how to behave!’ Fatima said. ‘There will be eyes on them when they are out in public, and tomorrow they leave to go to the desert—there they must eat only fruit, and the desert people will not be impressed by two spoiled princesses spitting out their food.’ She looked Amy up and down. ‘Remember to bow your head when you enter, and to keep it bowed until the King speaks. And you are to thank him for any suggestions that he makes.’

      Thank him!

      Amy bit down on a smart retort. It would be wasted on Fatima and, after all, she might do better to save her responses for Emir. As she turned to go, Clemira, only now realising that she was being left with Fatima, called out to Amy.

      ‘Ummi!’ her little voice wailed. ‘Ummi!’

      She called again and Fatima stared in horror as Clemira used the Arabic word for mother.

      ‘Is this what she calls you?’

      ‘She doesn’t mean it,’ Amy said quickly, but Fatima was standing now, the twins’ dinner forgotten, fury evident on her face.

      ‘What have you been teaching her?’ Fatima accused.

      ‘I have not been teaching her to say it,’ Amy said in panic. ‘I’ve been trying to stop her.’

      She had been. Over and over she had repeated her name these past few days, but the twins had discovered a new version. Clemira must have picked it up from the stories she had heard Amy tell, and from the small gatherings they attended with other children who naturally called out to their mothers. No matter how often she was corrected, Clemira persisted with her new word.

      ‘It’s a similar sound,’ Amy explained. But just as she thought she had perhaps rectified the situation, Nakia, as always, copied her sister.

      ‘Ummi,’ Nakia joined in with the tearful protest.

      ‘Amy!’ Amy corrected, but she could feel the disgust emanating from Fatima.

      ‘If the King ever hears of this there will be trouble!’ Fatima warned. ‘Serious trouble.’

      ‘I know!’ Amy bit back on tears as she left the nursery. She tried to block out the cries that followed her down the long corridor as she made her way deep into the palace.

      This meeting with the King was necessary, Amy told herself, as nerves started to catch up with her. Something had to be said.

      Still, even if she had requested this audience, she was not relishing the prospect. Sheikh King Emir of Alzan was not exactly open to conversation—at least not since the death of Hannah. The walls were lined with paintings of previous rulers, all dark and imposing men, but since the death of Emir’s wife, none was more imposing than Emir—and in a moment she must face him.

      Must face him, Amy told herself as she saw the guards standing outside his door. As difficult as this conversation might be, there were things that needed to be said and she wanted to say them before she headed into the desert with the King and his daughters—for this was a discussion that must take place well away from tender ears.

      Amy halted at the heavy, intricately carved doors and waited until finally the guards nodded and the doors were opened. She saw an office that reminded her of a courtroom. Emir sat at a large desk, dressed in black robes and wearing a kafeya. He took centre stage and the aides and elders sat around him. Somehow she must find the courage to state her case.

      ‘Head down!’ she was brusquely reminded by a guard.

      Amy did as she was told and stepped in. She was not allowed to look at the King yet, but could feel his dark eyes drift over her as a rapid introduction was made in Arabic by his senior aide, Patel. Amy stood with her head bowed, as instructed, until finally Emir spoke.

      ‘You have been requesting to see me for some days now, yet I am told the twins are not unwell.’

      His voice was deep and rich with accent. Amy had not heard him speak in English for so very long—his visits to the nursery were always brief, and when there he spoke just a few words in Arabic to his daughters before leaving. Standing there, hearing him speak again, Amy realised with a nervous jolt how much she had missed hearing his voice.

      She remembered those precious days after the twins had been born and how approachable he’d been then. Emir had been a harried king, if there was such a thing, and like any new father to twins—especially with a sick wife. He had been grateful for any suggestion she’d made to help with the tiny babies—so much so that Amy had often forgotten that he was King and they had been on first-name terms. It was hard to imagine that he had ever been so approachable now, but she held on to that image as she lifted her head and faced him, determined to reach the father he was rather than the King.

      ‘Clemira and Nakia are fine,’ Amy started. ‘Well, physically they are fine …’ She watched as his haughty face moved to a frown. ‘I wanted to speak to you about their progress, and also about the tradition that they—’

      ‘Tomorrow we fly out to the desert,’ Emir interrupted. ‘We will be there for twenty-four hours. I am sure there will be ample time then to discuss their progress.’

      ‘But I want to speak about this well away from the twins. It might upset them to hear what I have to say.’

      ‘They are turning one,’ Emir stated. ‘It’s hardly as if they can understand what we are discussing.’

      ‘They might be able to …’

      Amy felt as if she were choking—could feel the scar beneath the silk around her neck inflame. For she knew how it felt to lie silent, knew how it felt to hear and not be able to respond. She knew exactly what it was like to have your life discussed around you and not be able to partake in the conversation. She simply would not let this happen to the twins. Even if there was only a slight chance that they might understand what was being said, Amy would not take that risk. Anyway, she was here for more than simply to discuss their progress.

      ‘Fatima told me that the twins are to spend the night with the Bedouins …’

      He nodded.

      ‘I don’t think that is such a good idea,’ Amy went on. ‘They are very clingy at the moment. They get upset if I even leave the room.’

      ‘Which is the whole point of the separation.’ Emir was unmoved. ‘All royals must spend time each year with the desert people.’

      ‘But they are so young!’

      ‘It is the way things have long been done. It is a rule in both Alzan and Alzirz and it is not open for discussion.’

      It hurt, but she had no choice but to accept that, Amy realised, for this was a land where rules and traditions were strictly followed. All

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