Kamal hesitated, but whatever he saw in Azhar’s face persuaded him that further pleas for mercy would fall on stony ground. Deliberately refraining from bowing, he turned his back and left the kiosk, head defiantly high. Azhar watched him go, waiting for the door to close behind him, another moment for the garden door to close, and then he slumped down on the throne, dropping his head into his hands. Ten years ago, he had been on the other side of that door when it had slammed shut. Now, he was on the inside. Not just inside but locked inside. For ever.
Wearily rubbing her neck and rolling her shoulders, for she had been working since first light, Julia took a sliver of melon from her untouched luncheon tray. Outside, the sky was newly washed by yesterday’s storm, a celestial blue with not a single cloud to mar it. Though she had any number of loose ends to tie up in order to complete Daniel’s treatise, and despite Daniel’s watch ticking away remorselessly, almost reproachfully, Julia decided that she was going to steal some of the remaining time for herself, and start work on capturing the hidden garden in the Fourth Court.
* * *
Half an hour later, bathed and changed into her favourite tunic of lemon muslin, pale-green trousers and matching slippers, Julia turned the key in the door which connected the two gardens. It was like stepping into a perfumed bath, scented by all the familiar flowers and herbs of home, mingling with the exotic, more heady scents of the desert. She closed her eyes, trying to fix every single element in her head in the elusive hope that one day she would be able to recapture it, perhaps even recreate it in a garden of her own. But for the moment she would try to preserve it in watercolours.
Azhar was sitting on a stone bench in the shade of an archway where roses grew in wild profusion. He was staring out over the parapet at the desert, lost in his own thoughts, and did not see her. He was dressed in white silk, his formal robes, though he had cast off his cloak and headdress. His hair, recently cropped, sat like a silk cap on his head, the ruthlessly short cut drawing attention to the sharp planes of his cheeks. The starkness of his beauty stole her breath away, but the bleakness of his expression twisted her heart. Setting her painting equipment on to the path, she stepped lightly forward, joining him on the bench.
‘Julia.’
Azhar put his arm around her, tilting her head on to his shoulder, pulling her tight against him. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest. The soap he used was scented with lemons. Through the silk of his tunic, his skin was warm. Their legs were touching, thigh to knee. She shifted her foot to rest her slipper against his boot, and he stirred, kissing the top of her head, releasing her but only to push back her headdress, to run his fingers through her hair, and then to kiss her slowly, lingeringly, with a hint of desperation, before releasing her a second time.
‘Julia. How did you know I would be here?’
‘I didn’t. I came to paint.’ She smoothed out the frown which furrowed his brow.
‘The first time I showed you this garden—this secret garden—you said you thought it would give my father solace, a private place of refuge. I didn’t understand you then, but I do now.’
‘What has happened, Azhar?’ she asked, already dreading the answer.
He shook his head, the sensuous curve of his mouth turned down in an expression of such pain that she almost couldn’t bear to look at it. ‘Kamal?’ she whispered, taking his hand.
His fingers gripped hers painfully as he nodded. ‘I realised last night that I could put it off no longer,’ he said harshly. ‘That cursed watch I brought you. So little time left to set matters to rights, I thought. And now...’ His voice cracked. ‘Now I have all the time in the world.’
‘You have decided to stay?’
He swallowed hard. ‘I have no choice.’
She listened as he recounted his interview with Kamal, biting back indignant exclamations, while a deep, burning anger at the weak, selfish, unworthy man who called himself Azhar’s brother grew inexorably.
‘He was completely unrepentant,’ Azhar finished. ‘He seemed to think that the diamonds were some sort of legitimate compensation for his regency.’
‘How do you intend to deal with him?’
Azhar shook his head dejectedly. ‘It will bring shame and dishonour to our royal name if I publicly accuse him, and shame and dishonour upon myself if I do not.’
‘I don’t know what to say. I can’t even begin to imagine how you must feel.’
‘You are the only person on this earth who can,’ Azhar replied with a ghost of a smile. ‘No one knows me as you do. You know what a poisoned chalice the crown of Qaryma will be to me. You, and only you, understand what it will cost me.’
‘Oh, Azhar, I wish with all my heart that you did not have to do this. If there was any other way...’ Julia stopped, her voice clogged with tears.
‘Don’t cry, I beg you. It had to be done and cannot be undone.’
‘Then I shall not cry,’ she said with a sniff and a faltering smile. ‘To learn that your father actually kept track of your whereabouts—that he was proud of you—that at least, is one positive thing to emerge from this, is it not?’
‘Another poisoned chalice. If I am completely honest, I am not at all sure that I would have responded to that first summons, had Kamal actually sent it,’ Azhar said, looking troubled. ‘It would have been my opportunity to make my peace with my father, but I fear I would have seen the price as too high to pay, Julia, suspecting that if I came back I would not be capable of leaving a second time. A suspicion that I have just now managed to prove was well founded. But I deeply regret that I did not make my peace with my father.’
‘You cannot bear the sole burden of guilt,’ Julia said decidedly. ‘Your father waited nine years before extending the olive branch, and even then he did it only because he fell ill. Nine years which have served to make you the man you are, and that man will be a better ruler for the experience.’
‘Thank you,’ Azhar said, kissing her hand. ‘I know you say these things only to ease my guilt, but I appreciate the sentiments.’
‘I say these things because they are true. And the most important truth of all is that it is the—the essence of you, the man in here,’ she said, laying her hand over his heart, ‘the honourable man who can give nothing less than his all, whether it is to his business or his country, that’s what makes you the best King Qaryma will ever have.’
‘And now I have made you cry again.’
Julia shook her head. ‘I’m not—it is not you. I wish—oh, Azhar, I wish there was something I could do to help you.’
He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. His eyes were dark, still troubled. ‘Do you mean that?’
The way he looked at her made icy fingers of fear clutch at her heart. ‘What do you require of me?’
Azhar got to his feet, clasping his hands behind his back, looking out over the parapet at the desert. ‘If I am to do this, if I am to wear the crown, then it is best that I do so as soon as possible. From now on, my time will not be my own—I cannot afford to be distracted, Julia.’
Her heart plummeted. ‘I see,’ she said, trying to keep the disappointment and sense of rejection from her voice. She knew she had no right to feel that way but there it was regardless.
‘No, you don’t.’ Azhar caught her as she made to turn away from him. ‘These last