edge of sarcasm in Maya’s voice made Alex smile. Someone else wondered at Samarah’s attitude towards her sons—the unstinting love that probably hid any imperfections they might have had.
An image of Azzam’s striking features rose unbidden in Alex’s mind.
‘And now?’ she asked, determinedly ignoring the image. ‘Do you think she’s strong enough to get through whatever will be expected of her in the weeks ahead? Is there much for her to do? Will she have duties she has to carry out?’
‘More than she should have,’ Maya replied, moving Alex away from the lounge on which Samarah rested. ‘It is traditional that the wives of the dignitaries who have come for the funeral call on the widow, but this particular widow will make some excuse to avoid anything that might seem like work to her and Samarah will feel duty bound to take her place.’
‘Perhaps the widow is just grieving too much,’ Alex offered, surprised by a hint of venom in Maya’s soft voice.
‘Perhaps!’ Maya retorted, more than a hint this time. ‘But Samarah will find the strength to do what must be done. She is a very determined woman.’
They talked a little longer about the various preventative treatments available, until Alex sensed it was time to leave. She said good-bye to Samarah, promising to see her in the morning, knowing it would be a final good-bye because staying on would be impossible.
The only bright side was that she could send a note to Azzam telling him to forget about the wages, although she’d already been gone three days and if it took a day to arrange a flight and another day to fly home, that made six by the time she got back to work. One week’s wages lost, that was all.
She sighed, thinking how little importance she’d once have placed on one week’s pay. These days she knew to the last cent how much was in her account, her mind doing the calculations of credit and debit automatically. Knowing what went in each week and what went out made it easy, but losing a week’s pay from the two jobs would eat into the small reserve she’d been carefully hoarding.
If the clinic did take her back, all would be well.
And if it didn’t? If they’d replaced her?
She sighed and knew she wouldn’t send a note to the prince. If the job was gone, she’d need a little extra to tide her over until she found something else …
Damn it all! Why was money such a difficulty?
Gloomily Alex followed Hafa back to her room. It wasn’t only for the money she had to return home. Simply put, there was no reason for her to stay. But the thought of leaving the place Samarah had spoken of with such vivid words and so obvious a love without ever seeing more of it than a highway and the high-walled building in which she was staying caused disappointment so strong in Alex that it shocked her.
Not that she could go home! Not right now anyway. The prince—Azzam—had said it would be arranged, but he’d hardly be organising her flight home while attending the all-day ceremonial duties of his brother’s funeral, and the state visits that Maya suggested would come after it.
Needing to escape to consider these contrary reactions—wanting to stay yet knowing she couldn’t—Alex retired to her room. But once there, she was uncertain what to do. She didn’t want to sleep again. All the rules of air travel suggested fitting into the local time patterns as quickly as possible, so she’d go to bed at the regular time—Al Janeen time—tonight.
Now the women and maybe the men as well were back at the palace. If she went outside again—to walk around the beautiful courtyard—she might unwittingly offend. So exploration within the walls of her suite was all that remained to her. She opened cupboard doors, discovering a small writing desk, and behind another door a television set. Wondering if the funeral procedures might be televised, she turned it on, not understanding any of the words but guessing from the serious expression of the news-reader that he could be talking of the ceremony.
Huge photos of a man so like Azzam he had to be Bahir appeared to have been erected all along the street, and shots of them were flashing across the screen, interspersed with images of a crowd, no doubt lingering from the funeral. White-garbed men and women, a sea of white, filled the screen, and their cries of grief echoed from the television set, filling the room with their pain.
With the voice droning on in the background, Alex sat at the desk, taking up a pen and finding paper, determined to jot down her meagre impressions of this country she had yet to see.
And probably never would!
She’d barely begun to write when a change in the tone of the talking head’s voice had her turning back towards the screen. Once again she couldn’t understand the words, but now a map was showing on the screen, apparently a map of Al Janeen. The capital—given the airport and the lights, Alex assumed they were somewhere near it—was shown in the bottom right of the picture, and arrows pointed to an area to the north.
‘Great! They’re probably being invaded!’ she muttered to herself. ‘Don’t coups usually happen when the monarchy is unstable—when there’s a change of ruler? Just my luck to be caught in a war in a foreign country! What else can happen?’
Wanting to know more—the timbre of the man’s voice suggested shock and panic—but still worried that if she wandered beyond the building she might end up where she shouldn’t be, Alex left her room, wondering where Hafa disappeared to when she didn’t need her.
Hafa was sitting outside the door, legs crossed, head bent over some intricate embroidery.
She smiled as she stood up and tucked the piece of material into her pocket.
‘I wonder if you could explain something else to me,’ Alex asked. ‘I turned on the television in my room and the announcer sounded very excited about something happening in the north of your country. Is it a war?’
‘A war?’ the young woman repeated, looking more puzzled than anxious by the question. ‘I do not think war. We are a peaceful country and we like and respect our neighbours.’
‘Come and see,’ Alex invited and led her back to her room where the television still showed a map of what Alex assumed was Al Janeen, with arrows pointing to a place in the north.
Hafa listened for a while, a frown gathering, marring her fine, clear skin.
‘It is not war but an earthquake,’ she said, still frowning. ‘This is not good. The town is a not big one, more a village really, but it is a very old place of history in the north, between the mountains, and the reports are saying the quake was very severe.’
‘That must have been the tremor we felt here,’ Alex remembered. ‘I was in the garden.’
The young woman nodded but she was obviously too engrossed in what she was hearing from the television to be taking much notice of Alex.
‘Many people have been injured,’ Hafa explained. ‘There is a school that has collapsed with children inside. The town is in the mountains and landslides have closed the roads in and out, so it will be hard to get help and supplies to it.’
She paused as a new figure appeared on the screen, a familiar figure.
‘It is His Highness, His new Highness,’ she pointed out, her relief so evident Alex had to wonder at the man’s power. ‘He has left his brother’s funeral. He says he will go there now. If the helicopter cannot land, he has been lowered from one before. He will assess the situation and arrange to bring in whatever is needed. He can also give immediate medical help.’
‘Where will he go from?’ Alex asked, as new excitement stirred inside her. This was what she’d been trained for, but it was some time since she’d done this kind of work, the need to earn as much as possible to repay Rob’s debts taking precedence over all else.
‘He will fly from here—his own helicopter is here at the palace. It is used for rescues as well as his private business so it has medical equipment on board. Sometimes