Haya …” There is something about the look that Frances gives her that makes Haya’s eyes brim with tears all over again. She wants comfort so desperately. She swallows her pride and runs up the stairs towards the governess.
Frances shakes her head. “Look at the state of you! Your boots are covered in mud. And your fingernails! My heavens, child, you are utterly filthy and you positively reek—”
That is it. Haya doesn’t listen to any more. She pushes past Frances, choking on her tears, and runs in muddy boots past the row of Kings, bounding upstairs. The slam of her bedroom door echoes throughout the palace.
In the darkness, Haya drops to the floor and drags herself beneath the bed until she reaches her treasure box. She shimmies back out again with the box and lies panting on the floor. Her hands are shaking so much that she cannot open the lid. Instead, she just clutches it to her chest, holding it close to her heart as she shudders and cries, her sobs wracking her body as she weeps and weeps until she has no more tears.
“Ursula is here,” he says with his nose pressed up to the glass. “Her and Frances are fighting.”
Haya looks out of the window. She can see Ursula standing on the doorstep, still wearing the same clothes that she had on when she dropped Haya home the night before. And standing in front of her, hands on hips, flanked by the stone lions, is Frances.
“This is ridiculous,” Ursula says. “Let me in. I need to see Haya.”
“Out of the question,” Frances replies. “The Princess is still in bed. She’s exhausted after last night. She is not fit to receive company.”
“Well, I’ll come back later then.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” Frances says.
“It’s not up to you,” Ursula snaps back. “Ask Haya! She needs to know what happened.”
Frances looks as stony-faced as the lions. “I’m not asking a five-year-old to make the decisions; I’m the one who is in charge. If it had been up to me, she would never have been there in the first place. She was in floods of tears last night when you brought her home.”
“But I should tell her—”
“No,” Frances says. “You have already done enough damage without upsetting the Princess all over again. Now I think it’s time you got back in your car and left before I call the guards.”
Haya leaps down off the window seat and begins to run. Across the landing and down the stairs, she feels her heart hammering in her chest as she races for the front door. Why does the palace have to be so big? She is halfway down the corridor when she sees Frances striding towards her.
“Where is she?” Haya pants.
“If you mean Ursula, she has gone,” Frances replies. “Now go upstairs, Haya, and get dressed for breakfast.”
Haya is beside herself. “But I wanted to see her …”
“Out of the question.”
“I want to know what happened to Amina …”
“Haya, do not argue with me,” Frances says. “That is all.”
*
What else can Haya do? It is another two whole days before Baba returns from his meeting in America and Frances won’t let Haya go back to the stables no matter how much she begs.
When the King arrives home, it is late at night. Haya is in bed, but still awake when he comes in to check on her. “You’re back,” she murmurs.
“I made it just in time,” her father says as he strokes her hair. “I know a girl who is turning six tomorrow.”
*
The birthday party is held on the lawn of the palace. All of Haya’s cousins, aunts and uncles are there. Her aunts all admire the pretty dress that Frances made her wear. They say to Haya: “You look so much like your mother,” and Haya feels her cheeks turn hot with pride and delight.
She misses Mama more than ever on her birthday. Special days should be happy occasions, but since Mama died there is a tinge of sadness about them. But you cannot stop birthdays; they come every year. And so Haya tries to be brave and to smile for the guests even though she hears her aunts as they whisper, How quiet she is! And how sad she looks. Look how she sits alone and doesn’t play with the other children. It is no wonder that the King constantly worries about her.
“Haya,” her father says, “come over here and play pin the tail on the donkey.”
Haya’s father puts a blindfold on her and spins her round and round until she thinks she is going to topple over. All the other children shriek and giggle as she tries to stick the tail on the donkey’s head and soon Haya is smiling too.
Lunch is a picnic on the lawn and there is birthday cake and Haya opens the presents stacked on a big table. The coloured paper crackles in her fingers as she thanks her aunts and uncles for the gifts.
“My present wouldn’t fit on the table,” her father says. “It’s waiting at the front door.”
The children run, screaming with excitement, as they race through the palace, their bare feet slapping on marble. Haya is in the lead ahead of Ali and her cousins, determined to be the first one there. The massive front doors of Al Nadwa have already been swung open wide and she races outside.
“What is it?” Ali is panting. “What did he get you …?”
Haya does not answer. She is too shocked by the sight that greets her. At the bottom of the stairs, seated upon camels, are two officers of the Desert Patrol, the most rugged and fearless soldiers in all of Arabia.
The men of the Desert Patrol carry curved daggers at their hips. Their faces are noble, tanned from the sun, with high chiselled cheekbones and black eyes, their expressions solemn and serious. If the stone lions at the palace doors of Al Nadwa could shrink back in awe of these men, they would!
“Do you like them?” Her father has caught up with her at last.
Haya looks at him, her eyes wide. Standing next to these officers with enormous pink bows tied round their necks are her presents. Two camels. One fully grown, the other just a baby, but still taller than Haya. The baby camel keeps shaking his head to get rid of the pink ribbon, as if it is embarrassing him.
“They are mine? Both of them?” Haya turns to look at her father in astonishment.
“You wanted to be a proper Arabian Princess,” the King smiles. “For this you will need camels.”
Baba has understood all along. A proper Arabian Princess is exactly what she wants to be.
“Will they live with us at the palace?”
Haya can feel her governess’s cold eyes boring into her. She knows Frances is imagining the mess Haya’s camels will make on the back lawn!
Luckily for Frances, the King doesn’t think this is a good idea either. “They will remain with the Desert Patrol,” he said. “But you may visit them to feed and ride them.”
Haya is hesitant as she steps close to