all along. A proper Arabian Princess is exactly what she wants to be.
“Will they live with us at the palace?”
Haya can feel her governess’s cold eyes boring into her. She knows Frances is imagining the mess Haya’s camels will make on the back lawn!
Luckily for Frances, the King doesn’t think this is a good idea either. “They will remain with the Desert Patrol,” he said. “But you may visit them to feed and ride them.”
Haya is hesitant as she steps close to the camels. “Can I pat the little one?”
“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” the soldier replies.
Haya reaches out a hand to stroke the baby camel. He has shaggy fur, soft like velvet, the colour of caramel.
“I’m going to call this one Fluffy,” she says decisively, “and the mummy can be Lulabelle.”
A choked noise comes from the officer holding Fluffy’s lead rope. The men of the Desert Patrol are the toughest soldiers in Arabia. They do not call their camels Fluffy and Lulabelle! But he keeps a straight face and says nothing. He waits patiently while Haya and Ali and their cousins fuss over the baby and the other officer gets down off his camel to lift up the children so they can take turns to sit on Lulabelle’s back. When at last everyone has had enough, the soldiers mount up once more and lead the camels away, both men looking exhausted. The perils of the great desert are nothing compared to a six-year-old’s birthday party!
On the steps of the palace, guests are preparing to leave when Santi and Ursula arrive. They are driving the Al Hummar truck, and Ursula waves cheerily out of the window. “Happy birthday, Haya!” she calls. “So sorry we’re late!”
“Yes, happy birthday, Titch,” Santi says warmly.
“You’ve missed the birthday cake, I’m afraid,” Frances says curtly.
Santi pulls the truck up and opens the door, patting his belly as he gets out. “I do not need cake. Ursula feeds me too well as it is.”
He smiles at Haya. “I am only here to bring Titch her present.”
Santi looks over at the King and Haya sees her father give him a nod, as if to confirm that all is fine.
“There is another gift,” her father says, bending down beside Haya. “Santi and Ursula have brought it here for you.”
Haya does not know why her heart is beating so fast. Her father takes her by the hand and leads her to the rear of the truck, where Ursula and Santi undo the bolts and lower the ramp.
Inside the truck, so small that it does not even take up the space of one horse stall, is her birthday present. It looks at Haya with wide eyes blinking in the sunlight, a bundle of fuzzy baby fur on lanky pipe-cleaner legs.
“It’s a horse!” Ali shouts out. Then he frowns. “Why is it so little?”
“It’s a foal,” Haya tells him. “A baby, Ali, like you.”
“I’m not a baby. I’m four,” Ali says indignantly. But Haya isn’t listening to her brother. All her focus is on the foal standing before her.
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