both.
Dressing for a formal dinner hosted by the Crown Princess was a long and laborious ritual which usually required at least two handmaidens to be in attendance, but today, once her selection of clothing had been laid out in order, Tahira dismissed her servants from her dressing closet, preferring to be alone with her thoughts. When her mother ruled the harem, she often used to allow Tahira to perform the handmaiden’s duties. Mama’s closet was always heady with the scent of attar of roses. She would recount the history of each article of formal attire in turn, Tahira recalled. They always paused to take tea when she had finished dressing, before she donned her jewellery. The whole process could take hours.
The gomlek was first. Tahira cast off her bathing robe and pulled the loose chemise with its wide sleeves over her head. Mama had favoured bright colours, red and yellow and blue, but she preferred plain white. In times gone by, the garment was left open to the waist, so Mama had said, but nowadays in the harem, women understood the art of concealment. She had laughed at Tahira’s confusion over that remark, pinching her cheek and telling her that it was one of the many things she would explain when she was older. One of the many things that she never had the chance to explain.
Tahira’s gomlek fastened chastely at the neck. Eyeing herself in the mirror, she could clearly see the outline of her breasts, the darker shadow of her nipples through the sheer fabric seeming to invite a caress. Last night, when Christopher touched her, took her nipple in his mouth, her response had been a revelation. Recalling it now, she felt an echo of that warm, sweet melting feeling deep inside her. And his response too, left her in no doubt that he found the curves she took for granted alluring. She was reputed to be beautiful, but so too was every princess in Arabia. Her sisters said she was beautiful, but her sisters viewed her through the eyes of affection. In any case, beauty, real or attributed, was a mixed blessing, as far as Tahira was concerned. Her body was an asset to be traded, one which would buy her a husband who took pleasure in doing his duty—until he tired of her—but not an asset which would provide her with any sort of pleasure.
But when Christopher looked at her, she did not feel as if she was being sized up like a brood mare. When he said she was beautiful, she believed him. When he said he desired her, he meant her, only her, not her royal title or her pedigree or the jewels and gold of her substantial dowry. Tracing her hands over her curves, she saw herself through Christopher’s eyes, and liked what she saw. Last night had given her a taste of what desire could be. She smiled to herself. Last night had left her in no doubt that Christopher was capable of giving her so much more.
She pulled on her dizlik, the short drawers which tied at the knee. Not always worn, but very necessary when the salvar pantaloons were as sheer as the pair she now donned. Struggling with the richly embroidered belt which held the multiple pleats in place at the waist, Tahira wished momentarily for her maidservant’s practised assistance. The cerulean-blue organza fell in folds to her ankles, where it was gathered in by two smaller and easier-to-fasten ties. The salvar, according to Mama, was in larger harems considered a symbol of status. She had favoured brocade threaded with gold and silver, as Juwan did, but Tahira found such fabrics far too heavy, and was quite content to leave her sister-in-law to reign fashionably supreme.
The next item in the ritual should be the yelek, which was laced tight, pulling the waist in and pushing the breasts high, but Tahira drew the line at this. Besides, her entari gown fitted neatly enough, the indigo-blue brocade fastened at her waist over her chemise with a row of pearl buttons, the sleeves fitting snugly over her undergarment to the elbow, where they opened up, falling almost to her feet, while the side panels of her robe formed a train behind her, forcing her to walk at what Mama used to call a princess pace.
She was already hot, but her toilette was not yet complete. The koosak shawl made of the same gossamer as her pantaloons was draped over her hair and fixed with pearl-headed pins. Her sipsip slippers were also blue, studded with pearls, their pointed toes a further impediment to easy motion. She eschewed the fotaza turban, which Juwan preferred, and instead placed a little takke cap on the back of her head over her shawl. Her Bedouin star carefully concealed, she fastened a pearl necklace in place, added a few thin gold bangles, and she was finally ready.
Her eyes were lined with kohl, her lashes darkened. Her lips were painted vermilion. What would Christopher think of her now? Tahira turned away from the mirror. She did not want reality ever to collide with her fantasy world which last night had been perfect in every way. Careering down the sand dune, her body pressed back against his, it had felt like flying. And afterwards, those kisses. A different kind of flying. Only when she returned to the palace did she plummet back down to earth.
The distant sound of a bell summoning her to dinner made her heart sink. She was worried about her sisters. Ishraq in particular was behaving oddly of late, spending much more time than usual with Juwan. She was horribly aware of the sand slipping through the glass in the inevitable count down to her leaving them. There was nothing she could do to stop her brother arranging another betrothal, but though she told herself she was inured to the event, inside she was screaming denial.
So she wouldn’t dwell on it. Instead she would think about the silver pot she and Christopher had found at the mine. What else would they find there? And much, much more importantly, would it connect them with Christopher’s amulet? She rather desperately hoped so. It meant so much to him to resolve the mystery, and if the resolution in some way established a connection between them, through her ancestors...
‘Now that,’ Tahira said to Sayeed, who was finally stirring on his velvet cushion from a long day’s rest, ‘would be wonderful.’
The sand cat yawned. Tahira tickled him under the chin. ‘No adventures in the desert for us tonight, I’m afraid.’
The dinner bell rang again. Tahira adjusted the draping of her shawl, and with a sigh, left the room in preparation for a long and tedious repast.
* * *
One night later, Tahira was crouched down on the sand taking a closer look at Christopher’s sketches of the site around the mine, made in the full light of day. He had lit a lantern, the moon being on the wane, and the night hazy. ‘You are sure that you were not spotted?’
‘I chose my time carefully. Mid-afternoon, when the sun is at its hottest, there was no one about.’
‘What about the guards? They would not have dared take shelter from the sun,’ Tahira said, knowing her brother’s reputation for what he called maintaining discipline.
Christopher shrugged. ‘There are only two on duty at present, and both were happy to be distracted.’
‘How...?’
‘Suffice for you to know that they were suitably diverted long enough for me to carry out the inspections I needed.’
He was smiling at her, but there was something in his eyes that warned her not to press him. A dangerous man, who positively thrived on courting danger, she thought, and not for the first time. It was a large part of his allure. He drew her to him in the way that a beautiful, highly polished, lethal blade tempted you to run your finger along its edge, to see for yourself whether it really was as sharp as it looked, unable to resist doing so, despite the fact that your head told you that no proof was needed. Irresistible. Not that she had any inclination to resist.
‘So, you have an accomplice,’ Tahira said. ‘Another person who knows your secret?’
‘I have contacts, that is all.’
‘Contacts?’
