like poison. When they arrive, she refuses Santi’s offer of coffee and returns to sit in the car while Haya visits the horses.
For two hours Frances just sits there, reading a romance novel. On the car trip home Frances stuffs the book in her handbag, but she still doesn’t speak to Haya.
For the next fortnight visits to Al Hummar continue in this way. And then, one afternoon, the driver arrives at the front door of the palace to transport them to the stables and Haya notices that Frances isn’t holding her handbag.
“Señor Lopez and I have had words,” Frances says, and Haya is filled with despair until she adds, “he has agreed that there is no need for me to accompany you to the stables. It is more sensible for him to take care of you in the afternoons.”
As Haya travels to the stables, she feels electrified with a sense of freedom. Frances has finally admitted defeat. Haya is going to Al Hummar stables on her own!
There are fifty horses to care for and a half-dozen grooms under Santi’s command, but he is never too busy to spend time with Haya and is always waiting at the gates to greet her.
“I hope you are feeling strong, Titch,” he says. “There is much work to do.”
At the yards Yusef, the head groom, finds a pitchfork that is small enough for Haya’s little hands and she follows along behind the two men to help with the chores. There are boxes to be mucked out first. She digs out the damp straw with her pitchfork and helps to throw down fresh bedding into the stalls. Then she fills the hayracks in each box with armfuls of lush green alfalfa.
In the boiling room she helps the groom, Radi, to stir the barley pot, a huge cast-iron cauldron strung up by metal chains on a hook over the fire. She is not allowed to touch the pot because it is very hot, but Radi lets her scoop up dry barley and add it to the water. Barley must boil for at least two hours, but Radi likes it to boil overnight. The horses, he says, have delicate bellies.
In the tack room, Haya has her own named hook and a little bag of grooming brushes that Santi has made up for her: a hoof pick, a mane comb, a dandy brush and a curry comb. She takes her kit and goes from box to box, brushing the horses in turn, always saving her favourites till last. Amina’s coat is growing thicker and fluffier. Winter is coming.
When the first snowfall comes and there are deep flurries in the courtyard, Haya clips a lead rope to Amina’s halter and takes her out of the loose box. Amina shies at the snow, refusing to step in it, but Haya keeps coaxing her forward until the mare sticks a tentative hoof into the white crust. Then she dances forward, head held high, snorting and shaking her jet-black mane. Each snort creates a plume of sweet, shimmering steam in the cold morning air.
The snow begins to fall more heavily and Amina doesn’t like the feeling of the flakes on her face. She buries her head in Haya’s coat, trying to wipe the snow off. Haya laughs and takes Amina back to her loose box and then mixes her warm barley and chaff for supper.
*
As the season passes, Amina’s winter coat begins to shed, slowly at first and then in great clumps as the weather gets warmer. Haya grooms her with a curry comb, exposing her glossy, sleek summer coat underneath. But the spring also reveals something more. Amina is changing in front of Haya’s eyes, and she must tell Santi.
“There is a problem with Amina,” Haya says, trying to adopt the tone that she’s heard him use with his grooms. “I think she is getting too much barley. She is becoming very fat.”
Santi laughs. “That mare is not fat, Titch, she is in foal.”
*
That night, when the King is tucking her into bed, Haya tells him the good news.
“Amina is having a baby,” she informs Baba. “She is very fat so it must be soon. Santi says I can watch her foal being born – if you say yes.”
Her father considers this. “I’ll talk to Santi. We’ll pack a bag full of clothes and a torch and leave it ready in your bedroom. Foals are often born in the middle of the night so you will need to be organised to go at a moment’s notice.”
“But if it is at night, I’ll be asleep!” Haya worries. “Will you wake me up?”
“I promise,” the King says.
“Baba, do you love horses?”
“Yes, Haya.”
“Did Mama love horses too?”
“She loved all animals,” the King says.
“Did she ride horses like you do?”
“She rode,” the King says, “and she loved sports. Your mother was a champion waterskier.”
“I am going to be a champion too,” Haya says. “I’m going to be a champion horse rider. One day I will ride in the King’s Cup!”
It is a bold claim to make. The King’s Cup is the most glorious sporting event in the whole of Jordan. Haya remembers Baba taking her with Mama and Ali to sit in the Royal Box and watch the horsemen compete. She remembers the banners waving, the heat of the sun and the noise of the crowds. And riders, on the most beautiful horses she had ever seen. The horsemen vaulted off their galloping Arabians, riding like daredevils. One day, she thought, I will ride like them.
“Champions need to get their sleep,” the King tells her. “Especially five-year-old champions.”
“I am nearly six,” Haya reminds him.
“What do you want for your birthday, Haya?”
“I want to ride across the desert,” Haya murmurs sleepily. “And go to bed with my horse beside me and my camels outside my tent. I want to be a real Arabian Princess.”
Her father kisses her on the forehead. “Goodnight, Haya,” he whispers as she falls asleep.
“Hey, what is this?” Ali asks as he crawls out from beneath the bed with the golden shoebox grasped in his hands.
“It’s nothing,” Haya insists. But before she can stop him Ali has taken off the lid and has put on Mama’s sunglasses.
“No!” Haya snatches the glasses back from him. “You’ll break them!”
She tries to wrestle the box off him too, but Ali won’t let go. “Leave it! It’s private!”
“I’m just looking,” Ali says as he continues to rifle through the contents. “What is this stuff anyway?”
“Treasure,” Haya says.
Ali digs to the bottom of the box and holds up a photograph. It is black and white and the edges are worn from being held so often. A beautiful woman wearing the sunglasses that Ali has just tried on is smiling at the camera and holding a bright-eyed, dark-haired baby in her arms.
“Is that you or me?” Ali asks.
“It’s me,” Haya says quietly. “You weren’t born, I don’t think.”
Ali looks at the picture in silence, as if he is trying to place himself in it, even though Haya has just told him he was never there.
“Are there any pictures with me too?” Ali asks.
“Not in here.” Haya shakes her head.
Ali gazes at the photograph wistfully. “You had Mama for longer than