“Zaiman!” His father greeted him with open arms. “I watched you on the show today. Excellent work, my boy. Excellent work.”

“Thank you,” Zaiman said, returning his father’s embrace gratefully. “I couldn’t have done it without Alex.”

“You could,” his father said firmly, giving him a hard look. He softened after a moment, and chuckled. “But you probably wouldn’t have done it well.”

Zaiman laughed and greeted his brothers. His younger brother, Zabid, was happy to see him, excited to give a point-by-point review of his interview, replaying the audience’s reactions with enthusiastic drama. Zaahir was more reserved, his expression bordering on a scowl.

After Zabid had finished his crowing congratulations, Zaiman turned to his older brother.

“How did I do?” he asked, aching as always for his brother’s approval.

“As well as could be expected,” Zaahir said neutrally, crushing Zaiman’s elated mood.

Zaiman nodded stiffly, accepting the drink his little brother pressed into his hand. He paced to the window and looked out over the garden, where the six kids were playing beneath the trees.

He felt his brother beside him, but did not acknowledge his presence. His icy reception stung, and while Zaiman could admit that he deserved it, it simply drove home the feeling that no matter what he did, he would never be good enough to earn his brother’s approval.

“I misspoke,” Zaahir said quietly. “You did well. As well as could be expected in the face of disaster.”

Zaahir took a strangled breath, and his voice took on a tone that Zaiman had only heard once before, back when they were children, and Zaahir had accidentally broken a ceremonial sword.

“A disaster of my creation,” Zaahir continued. “Were it not for me and my silly infatuation with that ridiculous woman—”

“Or my idealistic infatuation with my own ridiculous women,” Zaiman interrupted wryly, his feelings mending beneath the salve of Zaahir’s clumsy apology.

He clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder and shook him in fraternal affection.

“We can only be so intelligent the arms of a beautiful woman,” he said. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“And what of your current beauty?” Zaahir asked curiously. “Are you prepared to risk destruction at her hand?”

Zaiman laughed. “I trust that the risk is minimal, and that any destruction she could wreak would be for my own good.”

“That’s a lot of faith to put in a woman,” Zaahir sighed.

“She has proved herself to me,” Zaiman told him somberly. A twist of nerves struck his core, and he cast a glance behind him toward the door. “And now, she is proving herself to Mother.”

Zaahir whistled. “I hope you prepared her.”

Zaiman coughed a nervous laugh. “I didn’t have much time.”

“Through the desert without a compass,” Zaahir said, shaking his head. “If she survives, marry her.”

Zaiman laughed, but heard the truth in the hyperbole. His mother could be the most loving, affectionate person in the world, or she could be the coldest, most calculatingly destructive force nature ever created. Which she chose to be was dependent on subtle indications of the other person’s character, and while Zaiman himself had no doubts about Alex’s character, he could not be completely certain that his mother would interpret her the same way.

He needn’t have worried. Before long, he heard the women coming down the hall, chatting easily and laughing like old friends. They burst into the room like a fragrant garden in motion, Alex in the middle between Zaiman’s mother and sister, their arms linked in familial affection.

“I like this one,” his sister told him with her signature bluntness. “Keep her.”

Alex blushed, and Zaiman laughed.

“I will do my best,” he promised.

“In the meantime, come into the ballroom,” his mother added. “We have a surprise for Amia.”

“Oh?” Zaiman asked, surprised.

“Well we missed her birthday! Three birthdays,” his mother emphasized with a sour look. “So, we’re having a little party before dinner.”

“Little” wasn’t the word that Zaiman would have used. As his mother flung open the doors of the ballroom, the group was greeted by a small mountain of presents, a magician, a juggler, and a ballerina on a pony.

“Mother!” Zaiman gasped.

“Oh, hush, she deserves it,” Sabira said, waving his words away with her hand. “Bassam, bring the children in, please.”

Bassam joyfully obliged, and soon, the room was alive with the delighted laughter of children.

Zaiman desperately wanted to talk to Alex, to check in with her and see how she had gotten along with his mother and sister, but his family had other ideas. Alex found herself passed from person to person, mother to brother to father to brother to sister, caught up in lively conversations.

After spending a half hour talking to Alex, Zaiman’s father pulled him aside.

“She’s quite a woman,” he said, impressed. “Well-traveled, well-educated, well-spoken. I wholeheartedly approve. There is only one thing…” His father trailed off, draping an arm around Zaiman’s shoulders and leading him away from the center of the party.

“What’s wrong?” Zaiman asked apprehensively.

“Nothing is wrong, exactly,” his father said slowly. “She talked about art a lot.”

“Yes,” Zaiman answered, confused. “She is a very talented artist. Does that worry you?”

“Not at all, not at all, but you see…” He lowered his voice, though the noise of the party would cover anything short of a shout. “As you know, I have mostly retired. Zaahir has taken over most of my royal duties, leaving me free to pursue other, less pressing interests. I have discovered a passion for art and history, the cultivation and preservation of culture.”

“Noble pursuits,” Zaiman commented. “But I’m not following.”

“I wish to open an art gallery. A modern art gallery, in the center of the city, focused on the beauty and history of our country. I want to inspire local artists and showcase their talents, to show the world that Al-Jerrain is more than just a paved patch of desert.”

“That is a brilliant idea,” Zaiman approved. “But I still don’t see what that has to do with Alex.”

“Don’t you?” His father gave him a strange look and shook his head. “She is too smart for you, my son. I hope she is also patient and forgiving.”

Zaiman chuckled, shaking his head. “Spell it out for your slow son,” he said.

“You see, Zaiman, I know everything there is to know about government and business in Al-Jerrain, but I know very little about art. I know what I like to look at, but that is where my expertise ends. I am asking you—as I assume you will be in a position to sway her opinion—if you would approve of her taking a position with the gallery, once it is built, of course.”

Zaiman grinned, recalling Alex’s impossible dream of doing just what his father was suggesting. If he could give her this, it would at least begin to repay his debt to her.

“You might want to ask her first, but I have every inkling that she would be thrilled to be involved,” he said. “And I would be thrilled that she would be thrilled.”

“So you approve?”

“I approve. You have my blessing.”

“And you have mine,” his father said with a grin. “Don’t make us wait too long; your mother is already fantasizing about having another daughter.” He nodded toward Sabira, who was gesturing animatedly as she chatted to Alex.

“Not too long,” Zaiman promised, returning his father’s smile. “Just long enough.”