Warner clasps his hands and sighs, looking for all the world like he’s trying to be patient with a difficult child. “Arrogance is false confidence,” he says. “It is born from insecurity. Haider pretends to be unafraid. He pretends to be crueler than he is. He lies easily. That makes him unpredictable and, in some ways, a more dangerous opponent. But the majority of the time his actions are inspired by fear.” Warner looks up, looks Kenji in the eye. “And that makes him weak.”
“Huh. Okay.” Kenji sinks further into the couch, processing. “Anything particularly interesting about him? Anything we should be aware of?”
“Not really. Haider is mediocre at most things. He excels only occasionally. He’s obsessed mainly with his physique, and most talented with a sniper rifle.”
Kenji’s head pops up. “Obsessed with his physique, huh? You sure you two aren’t related?”
At this, Warner’s face sours. “I am not obsessed with m—”
“Okay, okay, calm down.” Kenji waves his hands around. “No need to worry your pretty little face about it.”
“I detest you.”
“I love that we feel the same way about each other.”
“All right, guys,” I say loudly. “Focus. We’re having dinner with Haider in like five minutes, and I seem to be the only one worried about this revelation that he’s a super-talented sniper.”
“Yeah, maybe he’s here for some, you know”—Kenji makes a finger gun motion at Warner, and then at himself—“target practice.”
Warner shakes his head, still a little annoyed. “Haider is all show. I wouldn’t worry about him. As I said, I would only worry if his sister were here—which means we should probably plan to worry very soon.” He exhales. “She will almost certainly be arriving next.”
At this, I raise my eyebrows. “Is she really scary?”
Warner tilts his head. “Not scary, exactly,” he says to me. “She’s very cerebral.”
“So she’s . . . what?” says Kenji. “Psycho?”
“Not at all. But I’ve always been able to get a sense of people and their emotions, and I could never get a good read on her. I think her mind moves too quickly. There’s something kind of . . . flighty about the way she thinks. Like a hummingbird.” He sighs. Looks up. “Anyhow, I haven’t seen her in several months, at least, but I doubt much about her has changed.”
“Like a hummingbird?” says Kenji. “So, is she, like, a fast talker?”
“No,” says Warner. “She’s usually very quiet.”
“Hmm. Okay, well, I’m glad she’s not here,” Kenji says. “Sounds boring.”
Warner almost smiles. “She would disembowel you.”
Kenji rolls his eyes.
And I’m just about to ask another question when a sudden, harsh ring interrupts the conversation.
Delalieu has come to collect us for dinner.
WARNER
I genuinely dislike being hugged.
There are very few exceptions to this rule, and Haider is not one of them. Even so, every time I see him, he insists on hugging me. He kisses the air on either side of my face, clamps his hands around my shoulders, and smiles at me like I am actually his friend.
“Hela habibi shlonak? It’s so good to see you.”
I attempt a smile. “Ani zeyn, shukran.” I nod at the table. “Please, have a seat.”
“Sure, sure,” he says, and looks around. “Wenha Nazeera . . . ?”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “I thought you came alone.”
“La, habibi,” he says as he sits down. “Heeya shwaya mitakhira. But she should be here any minute now. She was very excited to see you.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Um, I’m sorry, but am I the only one here who didn’t know you speak Arabic?” Kenji is staring at me, wide-eyed.
Haider laughs, eyes bright as he analyzes my face. “Your new friends know so little about you.” And then, to Kenji, “Your Regent Warner speaks seven languages.”
“You speak seven languages?” Juliette says, touching my arm.
“Sometimes,” I say quietly.
It’s a small group of us for dinner tonight; Juliette is sitting at the head of the table. I’m seated to her right; Kenji sits to the right of me.
Across from me now sits Haider Ibrahim.
Across from Kenji is an empty chair.
“So,” says Haider, clapping his hands together. “This is your new life? So much has changed since I saw you last.”
I pick up my fork. “What are you doing here, Haider?”
“Wallah,” he says, clutching his chest, “I thought you’d be happy to see me. I wanted to meet all your new friends. And of course, I had to meet your new supreme commander.” He appraises Juliette out of the corner of his eye; the movement is so quick I almost miss it. And then he picks up his napkin, drapes it carefully across his lap, and says, very softly, “Heeya jidan helwa.”
My chest tightens.
“And is that enough for you?” He leans forward suddenly, speaking so quietly only I can hear him. “A pretty face? And you so easily betray your friends?”
“If you’ve come here to fight,” I say, “please, let’s not bother eating dinner.”
Haider laughs out loud. Picks up his water glass. “Not yet, habibi.” He takes a drink. Sits back. “There’s always time for dinner.”
“Where is your sister?” I say, turning away. “Why didn’t you arrive together?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
I look up, surprised to find Nazeera standing at the door. She studies the room, her eyes lingering on Juliette’s face just a second longer than everyone else’s, and takes her seat without a word.
“Everyone, this is Nazeera,” Haider says, jumping to his feet with a wide smile. He wraps an arm around his sister’s shoulder even as she ignores him. “She’ll be here for the duration of my stay. I hope you will welcome her as warmly as you’ve welcomed me.”
Nazeera does not say hello.
Haider’s face is open, an exaggeration of happiness. Nazeera, however, wears no expression at all. Her eyes are blank, her jaw solemn. The only similarities in these siblings are physical: she bears a remarkable resemblance to her brother. She has his warm brown skin, his light brown eyes, and the same long, dark eyelashes that shutter shut her expression from the rest of us. But she’s grown up quite a bit since I last saw her. Her eyes are bigger, deeper than Haider’s, and she has a small, diamond piercing centered just underneath her bottom lip. Two more diamonds above her right eyebrow. The only other marked distinction between them is that I cannot see her hair.
She wears a silk shawl around her head.
And I can’t help but be quietly shocked. This is new. The Nazeera I remember did not cover her hair—and why would she? Her head scarf is a relic; a part of our past life. It’s an artifact of a religion and culture that no longer exists under The Reestablishment. Our movement long ago expunged all symbols and practices of faith or culture in an effort at resetting identities and allegiances; so much so that places of worship were among the first institutions around the world to be destroyed. Civilians, it was said, were to bow before The Reestablishment and nothing else. Crosses, crescents, Stars of David—turbans and yarmulkes, head scarves and nun’s habits—