Ilyas?’ Hazin grinned. ‘No one could get close to him.’
Yes, it had been interesting indeed, and now Maggie could not wait to email Flo and bring her up to date. She turned off the taps and reached around the curtain for her towel and change of clothes.
For Maggie there was no question of drying off in the open dressing area. She had lived in too many places and with too many strangers to trust others and so always emerged from the shower fully dressed.
Thankfully, the copious amounts of sun lotion she had applied through the day seemed to have done the trick because as she dried off it would seem only her shoulders were a touch pink. The rest of her was as white and freckled as ever.
Maggie was incapable of getting a tan and had long since given up trying. In fact, she looked as if she’d come from an English winter rather than a sun-soaked Middle Eastern summer.
She pulled on some pale yoga pants and a long-sleeved top; though the days were hot, the desert nights were cold. Maggie was just thinking about what to have for supper when she returned to the dorm and saw that Suzanne was packing.
‘Getting ready for tonight?’ Maggie asked.
‘No,’ Suzanne said. ‘There’s been a bit of a change of plan. I’m checking out and meeting up with Glen in Dubai.’
‘Oh,’ Maggie said. ‘Tonight?’
‘I’m to collect the ticket at the airport.’
‘Wow! Well, I guess this is goodbye, then.’
Suzanne nodded and smiled. ‘It’s been nice spending time with you.’
‘It has,’ Maggie said politely. There was no offer to keep in touch, from either of them.
Maggie didn’t find goodbyes hard in the least—her childhood had guaranteed that she was very used to them.
To this day, she could still recall coming home from her new school and racing through the door of her new home to see her new puppy, only to be greeted by her social worker and told it was time to return to ways of old.
Maggie could never forget Diane’s cold blue eyes flick away when Maggie had asked to see the puppy.
‘Can I say goodbye to Patch?’ she had asked.
‘Patch isn’t here,’ the social worker had said.
He must have been too much trouble too.
Maggie hadn’t cried as her bags had been loaded into the social worker’s car and she certainly hadn’t cried when she’d walked out of that house.
Even back in a new care home she had not cried that night in bed.
Tears didn’t help. If they did, her mother would still be alive.
Yes, she was very used to goodbyes and, in truth, this particular one with Suzanne came as a bit of a relief. Maggie was happy with her own company and she found Suzanne a bit pushy.
‘Hey,’ Suzanne suddenly said, and opened up her travel wallet. ‘You could use this.’
Maggie looked down at the coveted ticket for the star-gazing trip tonight and a smile lit her face. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, I shan’t be using it. I was going to hand it back in at the desk and get a refund...’
‘Don’t!’ Maggie yelped, and handed over the cash that Tazia had just given her. ‘I’m way down the cancellation list.’
‘You’ll have to use my name, then. I booked the Star Package, with a camel ride included.’ She gave Maggie a smile. ‘You’d better get a move on, the bus leaves at eight.’
There was just time for Maggie to tie back her hair and pack a small overnight bag as Suzanne pulled on her backpack.
‘Well, I’m off,’ Suzanne said.
‘Safe travels.’
‘You too! And don’t forget,’ Suzanne said as she headed out of the door, ‘for tonight you’re Suzanne.’
CROWN PRINCE SHEIKH ILYAS OF ZAYRINIA had been born to be king.
And that was all.
His parents had had no real desire to be parents, neither had they taken delight in their baby.
They’d delivered for their country the necessary heir and then moved on to produce the spare.
Ilyas had barely seen them, unless for official duties, and had been raised in a distant area of the stunning, sprawling palace. He’d been fed and groomed by royal nannies and immersed in the teachings by elders.
It had been a busy little life and one utterly devoid of affection.
When Ilyas was four, Prince Hazin of Zayrinia had been born, thus pushing the uncle his father loathed down to third in the line of succession. Only when, two months later, Ilyas had stood on the royal balcony beside his parents had he come to realise that the tiny infant his mother held in her arms was, in fact, his brother. He’d kept craning his head to have a peek but had been sternly told to look ahead.
‘Can I see him?’ Ilyas had asked his mother, the queen, as they’d moved from the balcony and back into the palace.
But his mother had shaken her head. ‘Hazin has to go to the nursery,’ she’d informed Ilyas as she’d handed over her baby to the wet nurse for feeding. ‘And you have your afternoon lessons to attend, although King Ahmed wishes to speak with you first.’
Ilyas had known, from the use of his father’s title, that it would not be a fatherly chat.
It never was.
He’d been led to his father, who had been speaking with Mahmoud, his vizier.
‘Well done, Your Highness,’ Mahmoud had said, for it had been a very large crowd that had gathered outside the palace to greet the new prince. The king, though, had been less than impressed with Ilyas’s behaviour out on the balcony.
‘Don’t fidget so much in future,’ his father had told him.
‘I just wanted to see what my brother looks like.’
‘He’s just a baby.’ The king had shrugged. ‘Now, remember, in future always look ahead no matter what else goes on around you.’
For the most part, the brothers had been segregated. Ilyas had been considered too far ahead in his studies to be held back. Hazin, who was nothing more than a substitute, had eventually been schooled overseas in England.
It was Ilyas who had been born to be king.
For his first two decades he had absorbed the teachings and wisdom from his elders and everyone
