Not long after, the king excuses himself, and that’s our cue to say good night too.
37
Delilah
“Wow,” I say, leaving the studio. “My muscles are going to be screaming later. That was a great workout.” And the fact that Saher and I were in the same room sharing an experience adds to the exhilaration. “Heat makes it a completely different experience.”
“Screaming?” She looks perplexed.
“In pain,” I explain.
“Ahh, yes. It is exhausting and energizing at the same time.”
Saher leads me into an area where there are showers, changing rooms, and a lap pool behind a glass wall. I study the area, looking for cameras and opportunities. I see neither, but they’re here—at least the cameras. “Do you practice every day?”
“Hot yoga, two or three times a week,” she replies. “The other days I do Pilates or a gentler yoga practice.”
“Would you mind if I join you while we’re here?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I realize I might have been so forward as to be impolite. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to intrude on your routine.”
“I would enjoy the company. Normally the class is larger, but everyone is on holiday. It is quite lonely the month they are away.” Saher hands me a bottle of water and a fresh towel. “I should have mentioned to bring a change of clothes to shower. I always go back to my room after class and I did not think.
“There is a spa through that door,” she adds. “You can book a massage, or a manicure, or any beauty treatment you would like.”
We mop up some of the perspiration and cool down a bit, mostly in silence. I’m not sure she remembers inviting me to lunch last night. The little stint on the boat means that we’ll have less time here, but I don’t want to be too pushy. It could backfire.
I take my abaya off a coat hook just inside the entrance to the studio, pausing for a second, to be sure that the one I take is mine. Unlike the ones we wore last night that had some embroidery, these are plain, and identical.
Saher watches me with a bit of mischief in her eyes. “They all look the same.” She laughs.
They all look the same. Yes. This might be useful in delivering a message. But I can’t put all my eggs in one basket. I need to be open to other possibilities.
“But mine,” Saher explains, “usually has a small drawing or a note from my son, now that he has started to write.” She pulls out a piece of paper from the deep pocket, with three stick figures: one large figure, a medium-sized one, and a smaller one that appears to be a child. It’s a family. They’re smiling and holding hands. A little boy’s dream that has no connection to reality. “He always leaves me a little surprise.”
“It’s adorable. He’s talented.” I’m not taken with children’s drawings or their other antics, but I’ve learned that making a fuss over a beloved child is expected, and I need to make friends with this woman.
“I will send Raksha back to your room with you. She will wait while you shower and rest. At one thirty, we will have lunch.”
My brain is scattered in a dozen different directions, sifting through scenarios that might allow me to pass a message to her, and I almost miss the part about lunch.
“I would love to have lunch with you, but if you need Raksha—I don’t want to impose. Would you prefer if Fatima escorted me to your suite at one thirty?” I gauge her reaction carefully. Like last night, she stiffens at the mention of Fatima.
“I would not prefer. I will send Raksha. You can trust her.”
But apparently not Fatima.
We part at the end of the hall. Trippi, Raksha, and I go in one direction, and the princess in another.
Gray is nowhere to be found when we get back to the rooms. When he left this morning, he said he’d be gone until late afternoon, but I’m a little disappointed anyway. All the sneaking around like teenagers and pretending we’re not sharing a bed has made my hormones explode. Either that, or I’m an exhibitionist at heart. I don’t think so.
Raksha tidies up the sitting area while waiting for me. She’s quiet, and I don’t ask her any of the millions of questions I have about the princess and the royal family, because that would be sure to make her uncomfortable, and maybe alienate Saher.
She says a few words to staff we pass along the way, but the palace staff are mostly migrants, and they speak to one another in a dialect I’m struggling to understand. We also pass numerous soldiers along the way to Princess Saher’s quarters. Some are more circumspect about ogling than others. I miss my weapon.
When we arrive, Raksha pulls a key out of her pocket, and unlocks the door.
I follow her inside.
“Welcome,” Saher says, coming into a main room to greet me. A little boy is on her heels, hiding behind her legs.
My heart clenches as soon as I see him. This is the child we’re trying to save. This small, harmless boy and his mother are prisoners. They deserve to have their story heard.
She steps aside, taking his hand. “Prince Amir bin Jalaal, please meet Miss Delilah Mae Porter. She is our guest.”
He has a head of dark hair and a shy smile. The formality is stiff, but as soon as the introduction is over, she crouches and plants a kiss on the crown of his head. “Just a few more minutes with your tutor,” she assures her son. “Then you may play. There is a surprise if you behave while I visit with our guest.”
Raksha raises her brow and grins at him. It’s genuine and affectionate, and I’m certain they adore each other. Although it’s too early to trust her. The petite maid scoots the boy back through the doorway he entered while he asks about the surprise. Listening to him ask about the surprise makes me smile. It’s exactly what I would do.
“Are your muscles screaming?” Saher asks impishly.
“Soon.”
“We are all women,” she says, helping me remove my abaya. “Soon Amir’s tutor will be a man,” she sighs, “but until then, we are free to dress as we like here.”
She hands the black robe to another young woman, who appears out of nowhere. “It’s not necessary for you to wear the abaya in the palace, provided you dress modestly, but still you choose to wear it.”
She’s probing, but I suspect it’s more out of curiosity than anything else. “It’s a privilege to be a guest of the king, and I want to respect your customs.” And the more respectful I am, the better my chances of success.
“When in Rome,” she quips.
I’m taken aback for a second, and don’t respond immediately.
“Did I confuse the proverb? My English is not always on point. Or my Italian.” She chuckles.
“No, it’s absolutely correct. Look at you,” I tease, “a woman of the world.”
We share a laugh, and she glows.
“Let’s sit on the terrace. It’s peaceful there.”
Like everything else in the palace, the terrace and courtyard are lush and manicured, with a fountain rivaling the Trevi itself. It’s difficult to believe we’re in the desert.
Raksha brings juice and dates, and coffee so rich and potent, I might never sleep again.