From One Night to Desert Queen

by Pippa Roscoe

  ‘What did it take to bring her down?’

  Me.

  ‘Food,’ he lied, the word burning his tongue. ‘Speaking of which...it’s getting late. I’m sorry that wasn’t a proper meal, just snacks and—’

  ‘It was perfect. I wasn’t hugely hungry,’ she said with a smile. ‘Though I might be tomorrow,’ she warned.

  ‘Then tomorrow we will have a feast,’ he assured her.

  She stood, but appeared hesitant, worried almost.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Khalif, do you know where the necklace is?’

  Her large blue eyes were wide with hope. For a selfish moment he wanted to deny that he did. He wanted to refuse her the legacy that was so clearly hers because the necklace was so entangled with his memories. A thread woven through his family that to unpick it, to remove it from them would make Samira the last wearer...

  ‘Yes. I do,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Is it here? Can I see it?’ For a moment he thought she might clasp his shirt, but instead her hands were entwined before her.

  ‘Star, it’s back in Burami, I’m sorry.’ She bit her bottom lip again and the sight made him want to soothe away the punishment with his thumb. ‘I will speak to my family, but I do believe you, and I believe that it belongs with you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He gestured for her to go before him and followed her out into the gently lit corridor, realising for the first time that her feet were bare. The sight of them had his fists clenching and he wrestled to get himself under control. He absolutely refused to believe that he had developed a foot fetish in the last twenty-four hours, but he couldn’t deny the wicked bent to his thoughts.

  He knew that she could feel it too. Hadn’t missed the way that her shoulders had tightened, how she’d tilted her head just a little to the side, as she had done only the night before in Burami. He’d pressed his lips and tongue to that spot on her neck...

  This time it was he that punished his lip with his teeth, hoping that the short sting would bring him back to his senses. Senses that were almost completely filled with her. She reached the doorway and turned, her hand against the wood, as if anchoring her in place, for which he was thankful. She looked up at him and he was instantly aware of how he towered over her, filled with memories of covering her completely with his body, her pheromones already making him recognise her as his.

  She rose onto her tiptoes and he stilled, unsure as to whether he wanted to encourage her or not. Leaning in, she turned her head just slightly and pressed the simplest of kisses against his cheek and it held all the power of a tsunami. While he was trying to navigate his way through the swirling waves, she disappeared into her room and he was left in the dark, clenching his fists, feeling far too much.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KHALIF WOKE FROM a nightmare, heart pounding, skin sweat-soaked, his body tangled in the sheets. The bands of a tension headache pressed against his temple before he’d even opened his eyes, and the cords of his neck ached as if he’d roared his way through the night.

  The phone by his bed lit up as it vibrated and he didn’t need to check it to see that he had about thirty unread emails and probably at least eight missed calls from his father about the memorial.

  He looked at the clock, guessing that it was early as the sun was yet to rise. Five thirty a.m. felt brutal after last night, but there was no way he was going back to bed. The conversations he’d had with Star had felt oppressive and he still hadn’t shaken the weight of the past from his shoulders.

  He got dressed, choosing loose trousers and shirt, and placed the kufi on his head before wrapping the keffiyeh into a turban, pressing his palms against the secure familiar material that felt as if it were keeping the pounding in his head contained.

  He made his way down dark corridors, not quite ready to let go of his grief, of the images and memories of his brother...of Samira. Of the way she had looked at him just before she’d married his brother.

  His heart flared as he stalked towards the stables, looking for his favourite horse. Mavia, a true queen like her namesake was regal, strong, proud and determined, and by far the best in his stable.

  She greeted him like a jilted lover and he would have expected nothing less. He really shouldn’t have been away from Alhafa for so long. But within moments she was nudging him with her head and demanding the affection he was always willing to give her.

  He made short work of her saddle, itching to ride, and he launched himself into the desert just as the sun began to rise and the moon and stars to set. He raced them up a dune and out into the far reaches of the desert—his back to both the oasis, Alhafa and Burami.

  He wanted nothing but sand and sky, no past, present or future, just the way his pulse beat to the rhythm set by Mavia. He ignored the sweat on his brow, the fire in his thighs and the ache in his soul as they crested the dune and soared down the other side.

  But his mind refused to let up. Doubts, fears, shadows and ghosts rose up around him like a wave of sand before the storm. For three years he’d rode the pain, the grief, the guilt and anger at both Faizan and Samira for their choices, bearing it in silence and in secret. He’d tried to bend and shape himself away from the wanton playboy he’d been and into even half of the leader his brother would have been, and the one time he’d slipped, the one weakness he’d given into...

  Star.

  Her name was like a prayer and a curse.

  Only she was the one who would fall fowl of it. That her freedom was the price of his selfishness was nothing short of a tragedy. Everything about her, the bright, effervescent positivity, the gentle soothing babble of words, her enthusiasm, her hope-filled romantic belief...he would have to watch all of those things be dimmed by royal duty and etiquette. He would have to see her denied the freedoms she so clearly took for granted. He would have to see her caged.

  How would he ever bear the guilt of doing to her what had been done to him?

  As he came to the top of the last dune before returning to the palace he twitched the reins, bringing Mavia to a halt.

  He couldn’t.

  And in that moment, as the sun crested the horizon, he swore an oath that if Star wasn’t pregnant he would let her go. No matter what, he would let her go for ever.

  * * *

  Star peered out of her door, holding her breath. Not seeing anyone, she stepped into the corridor and stopped to laugh at herself quietly. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl being caught sneaking out of school grounds. But the hour she’d been asked to stay in her room had come and gone, and she couldn’t stay locked up in there any longer.

  As she trailed a finger gently across the chalky feel of the corridor wall, she marvelled at how light she felt, knowing that soon she might have the necklace in her hands. Her heart felt as if it had swooped upwards last night and was still soaring high. She’d desperately wanted to call her sisters to let them know all that she had discovered. But the memory of how low she had felt when she’d thought she’d never find it...that shocking disappointment had rocked the ground beneath her feet and she couldn’t do that to her sisters. She would wait until she had the necklace in her hands, rather than getting their hopes up.

  Star turned right, unable to shake the feeling that she was alone, as if she could sense that Khalif wasn’t in the palace.

  The silence was rare for her. There was always noise at the school; even outside the classroom children ran down hallways and played in the grounds. There was noise from the busy road she lived on, in the flat she shared with her two sisters. And even when Summer was away at university, Skye was always there, keeping her on track and running like clockwork. Star wondered whether Skye had realised that she’d kept her company almost constantly since the day that Star had met her grandparents.

  She wanted to shake that thought off, the low ache she often felt when reminded of them, but there w
as something in the silence...something about it...that reminded her of Khalif. Not the Kal she had met, though there had been a reservation within him even then. But Khalif the Prince? The man she might have to marry? Unease swirled in her chest and she rubbed her sternum, trying to ease it. She didn’t feel as if she knew Khalif as well as Kal who’d she’d spent one magical night with. Because there was hurt and anger that Khalif was holding onto and she couldn’t shake the feeling that if she didn’t confront it—him—then she might never know him completely.

  Room after room showed furniture protected by large white sheets, window shutters closed against the damaging rays of the sun. There was not a speck of dust anywhere—unlike the estate in Norfolk. But, despite that, there was the same impenetrable sense of isolation and mourning.

  The loss of Faizan and Samira was palpable; it felt as if it were forbidden to utter their names. But that kind of grief could be dangerous. Locked up tight, stoppered, it festered, it wounded, it spread like a poison... And that poison could do very real hurt and damage. She thought of the twin girls, wondered if they were allowed to express their grief, to talk about their parents as her mother had encouraged her to do. Throughout her childhood and into her teens, Star had opened up her feelings, so that difficult became easier and painful became loving. And while there was still an ache, low and constant, deep within her, it was not to be overcome but accepted as evidence of that connection, that love, between her and her father.

  Star found her way to the corridor Khalif had specifically declared off-limits and, despite that, she turned down it anyway. There had been nothing particularly different about it yesterday, just a sense she’d had...until she’d seen his reaction.

  Passing through a partially opened door, she came to a stop.

  Unlike the others, this room looked as if it had only just been left. Drop cloths on the floor, half-painted walls, rollers stuck to trays with dried, cracked paint next to large tins with the same colours spoke of a half-finished decorating project. Moving further into the room, object by object she saw signs of a home, of life she’d not found elsewhere in the palace. A jumper had been thrown across the end of a sofa in the larger living space. Some nail polish on the side table. Toys scattered on the floor, waiting to be put away.

  They were signs of a family.

  Faizan and Samira’s family. She turned back to the room where she’d seen the most decorating equipment and realised that it must have been the twins’ room and an overwhelming cascade of sadness drenched her where she stood.

  There was something so incredibly tragic about the half-finished rooms—as if Faizan and Samira’s hopes for their children were only half fulfilled. It looked as if the decorators had stopped suddenly, midway through the day. Perhaps to the news of the shocking accident.

  She looked at the two tiny beds, now far too small for the twin Princesses, and turned back into the living area, drawn to the warmth and the everydayness of the family photos on the tables and the book lying open at a page.

  Star could understand why it had been left, but still...it was such a shame to keep Nadya and Nayla from what was supposed to have been their home, from what their parents had wanted for them. She frowned, looking at the colours chosen for the room, the sweet style of shelving, and she could almost make out how beautiful it would have looked, had it been finished.

  She was about to turn back into the corridor when she felt the hairs on her neck lift.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  She turned to find him full of thunder, heavy dark curls of sweat-soaked hair slicked to his head, his chest heaving as if he’d run here from the desert. His white thobe open at the collar, as if he’d been interrupted in the midst of changing it. He looked like an Arabian Darcy having caught her trespassing, but there was no eager welcome in his gaze, no tentative hope in his demeanour. Instead he stood, refusing to cross the threshold, staring at her as if she’d committed a truly heinous crime.

  ‘How dare you?’

  * * *

  Khalif was shaking with rage, grief and shock. He hadn’t thought for a minute that Star would betray him in such a way. So when Masoud, awaiting his return in the stables, had informed him where Star was he hadn’t believed him.

  He tried desperately to keep his eyes only on Star but, not having been in these rooms for three years, his gaze devoured everything. It showed him things he wanted to see and things he didn’t. Pictures of his brother and his daughters, himself and his nieces...of Samira. Memories hit him thick and fast and he would have sworn he could smell the perfume Samira used to wear drawing him, against his will, across the threshold.

  ‘I was wondering why the memorial was so difficult for you. And then... I think I understand now,’ Star said, her eyes watching his every move.

  ‘You understand nothing,’ he bit out angrily. Raw, exposed and vulnerable, he did not want to be here.

  ‘I understand loss,’ she said, not once breaking that serene stare of hers. ‘Loss that has happened...loss that is yet to happen,’ she said.

  He hated that. He didn’t want that for her.

  ‘Whether it is in the past or the future, they are the same emotions, Kal. Grief, anger, resentment, devastation, helplessness. But this?’ She looked about the room. ‘It’s as if you all stopped breathing the moment they died. Do you even talk about them?’

  ‘Of course we do,’ he said, spinning away from her, hoping that she’d just stop.

  ‘When was the last time you said their names out loud?’

  ‘With you,’ he growled.

  ‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it.’

  ‘It’s not important,’ he said, unable to stop himself from peering through the doorway to the room that would have been for Nadya and Nayla.

  I want the two beds facing each other, and the mosquito netting to be pink, and the nightlight to have stars so that it covers the ceiling with the night sky. It’s going to be beautiful, Kal.

  Samira had been the only other person to call him that.

  ‘It might not be important to you. Or your parents, who must have many memories of Faizan and Samira’s life—’

  ‘Don’t!’

  In that instant he genuinely wasn’t sure if it was because Star used her name, or because of what she was saying, but he really didn’t want her to continue.

  ‘It’s important to Nadya and Nayla. It will be, if it’s not already.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said, turning, her words ringing in his heart.

  ‘It means that I know what it’s like to grow up in the shadow of grief. I know what it’s like to want to know who your parent was before they died. You want to know everything about them. Where they came from, what they were like at every birthday you reach. Whether you’re like them, whether they would have liked who you are becoming, whether...whether they would have loved you.’

  Everything hurt. For Nadya, Nayla, for Star...for himself.

  ‘And if no one talks about them, it’s like a denial. A denial that the person existed. And that makes it feel as if the ache in your heart has no real anchor, cutting you adrift in your grief.’

  He opened his mouth to ask, but she pressed on before he could.

  ‘And this?’ she said, sweeping her arms out wide and spinning in a circle. ‘This suite? This palace? It was going to be their home. It meant so much to Faizan and Samira that they wanted to live here, they wanted to decorate this suite and make it perfect for their children. It’s clear from the photos, the memories, the plans...this was where their heart was and their children haven’t been back, their family hasn’t been back to it and it’s just so sad.’

  It was an accusation that cut him to the bone.

  ‘We were trying to do what was best for them,’ he defended.

  ‘No. You were trying to do what was easiest.’

  ‘Don’t
push me on this,’ he warned, half growl, half plea.

  ‘Why? Someone has to. You can’t stay like this,’ she warned. ‘You’re unhappy with the memorial plans—’

  ‘But they’re done!’ he yelled, no longer caring what effect it caused. ‘Three years on from the accident and at least it’s done.’

  ‘Really? Then why are you so dissatisfied with them? You keep changing things to fix it, but it’s never going to work if you know in your heart it’s wrong.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, slicing his hand through the air, trying to terminate the conversation.

  ‘At least I’m talking. Really, Kal, is everyone around you so afraid of you that they refuse to tell you what they think?’

  ‘Okay, Star, you tell me. What do you really think?’

  ‘I think you’re so afraid of whatever you feel guilty over that it’s stopping you from feeling anything real about Faizan and Samira. And because of that you’ve somehow allowed the memorial to be something not even half worthy of their memory.’

  He felt the blood drain from his face. He wanted to fight, to rage, to shout against what she was saying, but he couldn’t.

  Not even half worthy.

  He felt sick. ‘It’s a disaster,’ he admitted through the acidic taste of bile at the back of his throat. ‘Everyone knows it. No one wants to admit it. But trying to find something that Samira’s father wants, something that my parents would be happy with, not to mention my nieces...’