a few paces behind her brother-in-law, Cassie saw Prince Jamil’s camp take shape before her, making her desperate to lift her veil for just a few moments in order to admire it properly. She had never seen anything so magical—it looked exactly like a scene from One Thousand and One Nights.
The oasis itself was large, almost the size of a small lake, bordered by clumps of palm trees and the usual low shrubs. The water glittered, dark blue and utterly tempting. She longed to immerse her aching body in it. On the further reaches of the shore was a collection of small tents, typical of the ones she had slept in on her overland journey from the Red Sea to Balyrma. They were simple structures made of wool and goatskin blankets held up with two wooden poles and a series of guy ropes. The bleating of camels and the braying of mules carried on the soft night air. The scent of cooking also, the mouth-watering smell of meat roasting on an open spit, of fresh-baked flat bread and a delicious mixture of spices she couldn’t begin to name. Two much larger tents stood slightly apart from the others, their perimeter lit by oil lamps. Their walls were constructed from what looked to Cassie like woven tapestries or carpets, topped by a pleated green-damask roof bordered with scalloped edges trimmed with gold and silver.
‘Like little tent palaces,’ she said to Ramiz, momentarily forgetting all he had told her about protocol and tugging on his sleeve to get his attention. She received what she called his sheikh look in return, and hastily fell back into place, chiding herself and praying that her lapse had not been noted.
Another few paces and Ramiz halted. Cassie dropped to her knees as she had been instructed, her view of the prince obscured by Ramiz’s tall frame. She could see the open tent in front of which the prince stood. Four carved wooden poles supporting another scallop-edged green roof, the floating organdie curtains that would form the walls tied back to reveal a royal reception room with rich carpets, a myriad of oil lamps, two gold-painted divans and a plethora of silk and satin cushions scattered around.
Cassie craned her head, but Ramiz’s cloak fluttered in the breeze and frustrated her attempts to see beyond him. He was bowing now, making formal greetings. She could hear Prince Jamil respond, his voice no more than a deep sonorous murmur. Then Ramiz stepped to one side and nodded. She got to her feet without her usual grace, made clumsy by her aching limbs, and made her curtsy. Low, as if to the Regent at her presentation, just as Celia had shown her, keeping her eyes lowered behind her veil.
He was tall, this prince, was her first impression. A perfectly plain white silk tunic beneath an unusual cloak, a vivid green that was almost emerald, bordered with gold and weighted with jewels. A wicked-looking scimitar hung at his waist. He certainly wasn’t fat, which she’d been expecting simply because Celia told her that it was a sign of affluence, and she knew Prince Jamil to be exceedingly rich. But the thin tunic was unforgiving. Prince Jamil’s body showed no sign of excess. He was more—lithe.
The word surprised Cassie. Apt as it was, she hadn’t ever thought of a man in such a way before. It was his stance, maybe; the way he looked as if he was ready to pounce. A line of goose bumps formed themselves like sentries along Cassie’s spine. Celia was right. Prince Jamil was not a man to cross. As he put his hands together in the traditional welcome, Cassie tried to sneak a quick look at his face, to no avail.
‘Lady Cassandra. As-salamu alaykum,’ Prince Jamil said. ‘Peace be with you.’
‘Wa-alaykum as-salam, Your Highness,’ Cassie replied from behind her veil, her voice raspy with thirst, ‘and with you also.’ She caught a glimpse of white teeth as he smiled in response to her carefully rehearsed Arabic. Or to be more accurate, he made something approximating a smile, which lasted for about two seconds before he held out his hand in greeting to Ramiz, and then ushered him into the throne room, where a servant pulled the organdie curtains into place, thus effectively obscuring them from view. Cassie was left to follow another man who emerged from the shadows to lead her towards the smaller of the two large tents.
‘I am Halim, Prince Jamil’s man of business. The prince asks me to ensure you have all you require. Refreshments will be served to you in your tent.’
‘But—I assumed I would dine with Prince Jamil and Ramiz—I mean Prince Ramiz.’
‘What can you be thinking of to suggest such a thing?’ Halim looked at the dusty-veiled female who was to be the Princess Linah’s governess with horror, thinking that already his worst fears were being confirmed. She had no idea of the ways and customs of the East. ‘You are not in London now, Lady Cassandra. We do things very differently here—Prince Jamil would be shocked to the core.’ The latter statement was a lie, for Prince Jamil was forever lamenting the outmoded segregation of the sexes at meal times, but this upstart governess was not to know that, and the sooner she was put firmly in her place the better.
‘Please, don’t mention it to him,’ Cassie said contritely. ‘I did not mean to offend. I beg your pardon.’
‘It shall be so, but you would do well to heed my warning, Lady Cassandra. Daar-el-Abbah is a very traditional kingdom. You must tread extremely carefully.’ Halim bowed and held back the heavy tapestry that formed the door of the tent. Cassie stepped across the threshold and turned to thank him, but he was already gone. She stared in wide-eyed amazement at the carpets, the wall hangings, the divans and cushions, the carved chests and inlaid tables. Another heavy tapestry, depicting an exotic garden in which nymphs sported, split the tent into two. In the smaller of the compartments she found, to her astonishment, a bath of beaten copper filled with warm water and strewn with petals. It had a delightful fragrance, orange blossom, she thought. A selection of oils in pretty glass decanters stood beside it on a little table, along with a tablet of soap and the biggest sponge Cassie had ever seen.
She needed no further encouragement, stripping herself of her travel-worn clothes and sinking with a contented sigh into the bath. She lay luxuriating in it for a long time, allowing the waters to ease her aching muscles. Eventually she sat up and washed her hair, then chose a jasmine oil with which to anoint herself before donning one of her own nightgowns and a loose wrapper in her favourite shade of cerulean blue. Her hair she brushed out and left loose to dry in its natural curl.
‘Since I’m obviously surplus to requirements while the men discuss weighty matters of state, I may as well be comfortable,’ she muttered to herself. Part of her resented being so completely excluded, despite the fact that she was perfectly well aware her presence would be unprecedented in this deeply patriarchal society. As Papa’s daughter, playing a role, albeit a small one, in the world of politicking and diplomatic shenanigans was second nature to Cassie. Though she was not the trusted confidante that Celia had been, she was used to pouring oil on troubled waters and providing a sympathetic ear. It irked her, though she knew it should not, that both Ramiz and her new employer should so casually dismiss her.
But as she emerged into the main room of the tent and found a silver tray covered in a huge selection of dainty dishes had been provided for her, along with a jug of sherbet, Cassie’s mood brightened significantly and common sense reasserted itself. She was expecting too much—and she would do well to remember that she was here to govern a small girl, not a country! The princes were welcome to their weighty affairs of state.
Stacking up a heap of cushions on the floor beside the tray, she set about making an excellent meal. Far better to enjoy her own company than to have to make polite conversation with the prince tonight, all the time on tenterhooks lest she overstep some invisible mark. Far better to have a good night’s sleep, to be introduced to him formally in the morning when she was refreshed and able to make a better impression.
She washed her fingers in the bowl and lolled back on the cushions in a most satisfyingly un-ladylike manner, which would have immediately prompted Aunt Sophia into one of her lectures about posture and politesse. The thought made Cassie giggle.
