“I’m meeting him now?”
“Yes.”
Fresh panic washed through her. “I thought we were going in for tea and conversation!”
“We are. This is the judicial process. It’s not in a court with many observers. It’s more intimate...personal. We sit at a table, have tea, and talk. Sheikh Azizzi will either come to a decision during the discussion, or he will leave and make a decision and then return to tell us what he has chosen to do.”
“And it really all rests with him?”
“Yes.”
“Could you not override his decision? You are the king.”
Mikael studied her impassively. “I could, but I doubt I would.”
“Why?”
“He is a tribal judge, and the highest in my tribe. As Bedouin, we honor our tribal elders, and he is the most respected man from my tribe.”
The driver returned with a dark blue folded cotton garment and handed it to Mikael. Mikael shook out the robe and told her to slip it over her head. “This is more conservative, and should make him feel more comfortable.”
She reached up and touched her hair. “Shouldn’t I have a headscarf too?”
“He knows you’re American, knows your father was Daniel Copeland. No need to pretend to be someone you’re not.”
“But I also have no wish to further offend him.”
“Then perhaps braid your hair and tie it with an elastic. But your hair is not going to protect you from judgment. Nothing will. This is fate. Karma.”
Jemma swiftly braided her hair and then stepped from the car, following Mikael. Fate. Karma. The words rang through her head as she walked behind the sheikh toward the house.
Robed men and women lined the small dirt road, bowing deeply. Mikael paused to greet them, speaking briefly and then waving to some children who peeked from windows upstairs before leading her to the arched door of the house. The door opened and they were ushered inside.
Candles and sconces on the wall illuminated the interior. The whitewashed walls were simple and unadorned. Dark beams covered the ceiling in the entry, but the beams had been painted cream and pale gold in the living room.
As Mikael and Jemma were taken to a low table in the living room, Jemma spotted more children peeking from behind a curtain before being drawn away.
“Sit here,” Mikael instructed, pointing to a pillow on the floor in front of the low square table. “To my right. Sheikh Azizzi will sit across from me, and speak to me, but this way he can see you easily.”
Jemma sank onto the pillow, curling her legs under her. “He’s not going to ask me anything?”
“No. Over tea I will give him the facts. He will consider the facts and then make his decision.”
“Is this how you handle all tribal crimes?”
“If it’s not a violent crime, why should the sentencing be chaotic and violent?”
She smoothed the soft thin cotton fabric over her knees. “But your country has a long history of aggression. Tribal warring, kidnapped brides, forced marriages.” She quickly glanced at him. “I’m not trying to be sarcastic. I ask the question sincerely. How does one balance your ideal of civility in sentencing, with what we Westerners would view as barbaric tribal customs?”
“You mean, kidnapped brides?”
Her eyes widened. “No. I was referring to arranged marriages.”
He said nothing. She stared at him aghast. The seconds ticked by.
Jemma pressed her hands to her stomach, trying to calm the wild butterflies. “Do you really kidnap your brides?”
“If you are a member of one of the royal families, yes.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It’s how one protects the tribe, by forging new ties through forced marriage with other tribes.”
“It’s barbaric.”
“It settles a score.”
“You sound so cavalier about a very violent act.”
“The marriage might be forced, but the sex is generally consensual.” His dark gaze held hers. “One takes a bride to settle a debt, but the captive bride becomes a royal wife. The marriage must be satisfying for both.”
“I sincerely doubt a forced marriage can ever be satisfying!”
“A forced marriage isn’t that different from an arranged marriage, and that is also foreign to your Western way of thinking, so perhaps it’s better if you do not judge.”
A shadow filled the doorway and an older, robed man entered the living room.
Mikael rose, and hugged the older man. They clasped each other’s arm and spoke in Arabic. After a moment both Mikael and Sheikh Azizzi sat down at the table, still deep in conversation.
Sheikh Azizzi hadn’t even looked at her yet. Mikael didn’t glance her way either.
Their conversation was grave. No laughter, no joking. They took turns speaking, first one, and then the other. The mood in the room was somber. Intense.
They were interrupted after fifteen minutes or so by a male servant carrying a tea tray. Sheikh Azizzi and Mikael ignored the man with the tray but Jemma was grateful to see the tea and biscuits and dried fruit arrive. She was hungry, and thirsty. She eyed the teacup placed in front of her and the plate of biscuits and fruit but didn’t touch either one, waiting for a signal from Mikael, or Sheikh Azizzi. But neither glanced her way.
She longed for a sip but waited instead.
They talked for at least another fifteen minutes after the tea tray was brought in. The servant came back, carried away the now cold tea on the tray, and returned five minutes later with a fresh steaming pot.
Jemma’s stomach growled. She wanted to nibble on one of the biscuits. She didn’t even care what the tea tasted like. She just wanted a cup.
But she sat still, and practiced breathing as if she were in her yoga class in London. Instead of getting upset, she’d meditate.
Jemma closed her eyes, and focused on clearing her mind, and her breathing. She wouldn’t think about anything, wouldn’t worry...
“Drink your tea, Jemma,” Mikael said abruptly.
She opened her eyes, looked at him, startled to hear him use her first name, and somewhat uneasy with his tone. It hadn’t
