“Go ahead.” She stood up and brushed off her skirt. Hadi was back, she saw, leaning in the doorway with a frown on his face. Willow made a beeline for him and drew him outside. He raised a brow in question, and her anger surged anew.

  “You couldn’t have said something? Told that teacher to ease off?”

  “Said something? Said what? Zak seems fine to me.”

  Willow’s jaw tightened. “He was nearly in tears. That’s fine by you?”

  Hadi shrugged. “He’ll be sheikh of Tanodayea one day. That’s a third of Ad Diwasul, nearly four million souls. A ruler can’t fall apart when faced with his own ignorance.”

  “A ruler? He’s seven.”

  “He has to learn.”

  Willow shook her head, incredulous. “And you think that’s teaching? Badgering children to tears? All he’ll learn from that is how to hate learning.”

  “Lale’s never complained.” Hadi’s voice had gone flinty, his eyes hard and flat. “Zak’s behind. That’s reality. Catching up will be hard work, but my heir can’t be—”

  “Your heir is my son.” Willow’s rage sparked and flared. “He’s had a whole life before this. He has his own dreams. He might want to be sheikh one day, but you can’t just assume.”

  “What?” Hadi jerked back like she’d slapped him. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand. You sought me out. You brought Zak to me. You walked into my family. You must have had some inkling, some clue as to what that means.”

  “So for Zak to be your son, he has to be you? To fit himself to your world, whatever it takes?”

  “Of course not.” Hadi made a snorting sound. He half turned from Willow, as if he’d grown tired of her face. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’d never take his passions from him, his reading, his bugs. But he’s my son too. He’s my heir. That comes with expectations. With traditions. With rules.” His expression had softened, become almost thoughtful. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, Ad Diwasul runs on tradition. How would it look if the son of the sheikh couldn’t do a simple full moon dance or name the stars in the sky?”

  “How would it look?” Willow’s breath caught in her throat. How would it look—how she hated those words! She swallowed resentment, bitter on her tongue. “My parents loved that phrase,” she said. “We used to hear it all the time: How would it look, our sweet girls in jeans? Showing their figures like Jezebels in the street?” Her voice rose, harsh with fury, and she clenched her fists tight. “Those were the last words Mom ever said to Fern. How would that look, a child out of wedlock? How would that look? And they slammed the door in her face.”

  “Willow—”

  “No, listen.” She hitched a quick half sob, and she realized she was trembling. She’d gone too far, she knew, but the hurt swelled inside her, and she couldn’t hold her tongue. “If you’d do that to Zak—if you’d turn your back on him if he isn’t your perfect heir—tell me right now.”

  Hadi stood motionless, his face a frozen mask. Zak was watching, Willow saw, a faint furrow between his eyes. Hadi glanced his way and softened, and his hands dropped to his sides.

  “I’d never do that,” he said. “He’s my son and heir, and that’s why I believe in him.” Hadi was smiling, full of pride. “He’ll bend himself to his studies,” he said, “and he’ll catch up with Lale. They’ll shine together at their ceremony, just as they should.”

  “Yeah?” Willow fished for a retort, something so sharp, so biting, Hadi would crumble where he stood. Nothing came to mind, just raw hurt and rage. “I’ll be at every lesson,” she hissed. “You will not make Zak feel like he’s not good enough.” She’d have turned and stalked off, then, a proper princess flounce, but Zak was headed her way, grinning a chocolatey grin.

  “Hey, Zak.” She smiled back, though her stomach hurt. “I think we’re about through here. Want to go check out those horses?”

  Zak nodded cheerfully, and she led him out to the garden, down the terrace toward the stables. The swing he’d played on with Lale was drifting in the breeze, and Willow’s heart ached at the memory of that picture-postcard moment.

  I guess we really are family. We’ve just had our first fight.

  5

  “This won’t be like last time,” Fisa said. She set her hand on Willow’s arm. “Kids love the tea ceremony. It’s fun and social, and of course it comes with snacks.”

  “Zak’s excited,” said Willow. “Lale’s filled him in on the details. He can’t wait to see the tea flowers bloom.” She glanced down the hallway. Zak and Lale were horsing around, trying to get a white butterfly to land on their arms. Zak was laughing, boisterous, every bit his old self. Willow looked away.

  “Listen, about last time—”

  “Let’s put it behind us,” Fisa said. “Today’s a new day.”

  “It is,” agreed Willow. “But I wanted to say, you have a beautiful culture. We want to embrace that, Zak and I both.”

  “You were objecting to the pressure, not the lessons themselves.” Fisa smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ve been there. I understand.”

  Willow’s heart swelled with gratitude. Maybe Fisa would be an ally, a buffer against Hadi’s expectations. She followed her to the classroom with a new sense of optimism. She’d take this journey with Zak, every step of the way. She’d make it a fun ride, just like she always did.

  “Mom! It’s like a picnic.” Zak pulled her inside, all smiles. “See? There’s a blanket and cookies and—”

  “That’s a tea rug,” Malik said. He knelt and touched the ornate rug. It was woven in shades of blue and purple, scattered with silver. “This deep blue on the outside, that’s the night sky. See, here’s Orion, and the Big Dipper up here.” He ran his finger along the weave, to where the blue grew pale. “This inner square’s our realm, bounded and protected by the heavens.”

  “So that’s where we sit?”

  “Good guess,” said Malik. “But we don’t sit on the rug. Lale, fetch the cushions. We’re just waiting for—”

  “I’m here!” Karima hurried in, pink cheeked with exertion. “I slept in just a little, and—I’m not late, am I?”

  “Just in time, Aunt Karima.” Lale set down the last cushion. “Why don’t you sit by me?”

  “And we’ll have Zak on your other side, and his mother by him.” Malik took his own position, across from Karima. “Now, Lale, can you explain the origin of the tea ceremony for our new students?”

  “It’s from when we lived in the desert,” she said. “We had to go where the water was, and that changed with the seasons. We’d make friends in winter and say goodbye in spring, and we might not meet again for months or even years.” She paused for a breath, brow knit in concentration. “Whenever we’d meet again, we’d share tea and sweet treats to show our love and trust.”

  “Very good,” Malik said. “We’d share tea, and we’d—Zak!”

  “What?” Zak dropped the lid back on his tea bowl. It made a brittle ting.

  “You don’t pour your own tea. We go round the table, which way?”

  “Right to left,” Fisa said. She tipped Zak a wink. “Lale, why don’t you show us?”

  Lale uncovered Zak’s tea bowl and reached for the pot. She lifted it solemnly and poured in one graceful motion, holding her sleeve back so it didn’t trail in the stream.

  “Whoa...” Zak stared into his bowl, eyes round as saucers. The tea flower was blooming, bright pink and yellow, a line of tiny buds like pearls floating out from its center. “It’s like a whole garden,” he breathed. “I thought—”

  Malik cleared his throat. “Zak?”

  “Huh? Oh. No talking till the first sip.” He reached for the teapot and hesitated. “Do I—?”

  “Pour for your mother.”

  Willow held her breath as Zak took the pot. It was heavy and wobbled when he went to tuck his sleeve. Zak bit his lip, squared his shoulders, and leaned in to pour. Willow saw the problem an instant too late. Hot water scalded her fingers as she snatched the lid off her bowl.

  “Mom!” Zak jerked back, stricken. Malik steadied the pot.

  “You did well,” Karima said. “You just missed one tiny detail.”

  “I broke the pot my first time,” Fisa said. “And look. No spills.”

  Zak was fidgeting with his shirt hem, twisting it in his hands. “But Mom’s fingers—”

  “I’m fine.” Willow uncovered Malik’s bowl and reached for the teapot. “Just like this?”

  “Your sleeve’s in my tea bowl.”

  Lale muffled a giggle. Willow’s face went hot. She brushed her sleeve back quickly and filled Malik’s bowl.

  “Milk or sugar?”

  “Excuse me?” Malik arched a brow, and this time Zak snorted. Willow ducked her head.

  “We lived in London before this,” she said. “Guess I’ve picked up a habit or two.”

  “This tea’s already sweet,” Malik said. “And we drink it quite weak, so it doesn’t need milk.”

  Willow flushed, embarrassed. She’d been so scared Zak would goof up, she’d messed up herself. A new adventure, she’d told Zak. A new chapter for us both. She glanced at Malik, but his expression was unreadable. Was he judging her? Dismissing her? He seemed like the type to get one look at her and write her off just like that.

  “My mom loves her sugar,” Zak said. He smiled up at her and she smiled back, as confidently as she could manage. They’d conquer this challenge as they’d conquered every other. It was, after all, just tea.

  “Zak, no!” Lale laughed out loud. “Look, you spilled again.”

  Willow glanced up from her painting, a watercolor sketch of Zak and Lale. The kids were practicing the tea ceremony, pouring back and forth. Lale was kneeling in puddles from Zak’s messy pours. Zak’s side was pristine, a testament to Lale’s skill.

  “It’s easier if you relax,” Willow said. “If you let your hands work while you think of something else.” She bent back to her sketch, shading the edges of Zak’s red shirt with deep midnight purple. It wasn’t right, not quite, but Willow was out of practice. With travel plans and lesson plans, she’d hardly painted at all since she and Zak had left London.

  “Try it like this,” Lale said. She went for the teapot, then jumped up and waved at someone outside. “Dad! Look, it’s Dad. Hey, Dad, come help!”

  Zak got up too and waved along with Lale. Hadi came up to the French doors and tapped on the glass.

  “Come in,” called Willow, and Hadi let himself in. The fragrant breeze came with him, jasmine from the garden. He shut the doors behind him and looked down at the rug.

  “What have we here, then? Tea ceremony for two?”

  “It’s just water,” Lale said. “Zak’s practicing his pour.”

  “Oh? Let me see it.” Hadi knelt next to Zak and got himself a bowl. “Oh, oops. Left hand.”

  Zak froze mid-reach. “What?”

  “You use your left hand for your sleeve, then your right hand to pour.” Hadi took the pot and demonstrated, filling Lale’s bowl. “You try.”

  Willow set down her paintbrush and drifted over to watch. Zak had that look he got, peering through his microscope—that bright laser focus she’d always found disconcerting, like one day he’d get so absorbed he’d forget to breathe.

  “Left hand,” he whispered. He looked up at Hadi. “I’m not wearing loose sleeves. Should I still—”

  “Just pretend.” Hadi smiled. “You’ll be wearing them for the ceremony, so you might as well get in the habit.” He was in a Western suit himself, but instead of a tie, he wore a scarf about his shoulders, a rough silk weave with a geometric design. Its colors echoed the desert, faded blues and earth tones. Willow realized she was staring and turned her attention back to Zak.

  “You’ve got this,” she said.

  Zak nodded gravely. He brushed back an imaginary sleeve, bit his lip, and poured...all over Hadi’s saucer, and a bit on his knee.

  “Sorry.” He hung his head, crestfallen. “I’d have burned you, if that was hot.”

  “If it was hot, I’d have moved.” Hadi emptied his saucer and set the lid back on his bowl. “Try again, only this time, don’t hold your breath. It’s easy if you don’t think about it.”

  “Yes, sir. Dad.” Zak tried again, but he held the pot too high. Water splashed everywhere, and Hadi shook his head.

  “I said ‘don’t think about it,’ not ‘ignore the laws of physics.’” He chuckled, but Zak had shrunk in on himself, shoulders bunched to his ears.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I just—”

  “Why don’t we make it fun?” Willow plopped down across from Hadi and set herself a place. “Now, remember Alice in Wonderland?”

  Zak nodded listlessly. “I liked the Cheshire Cat.”

  “Then that’s who you’ll be.” She caught Hadi’s eye, praying he’d go along. “We’ll have our own Mad Tea Party. I’m the white rabbit, and Lale, you’re—”

  “I’m the Queen of Hearts. Off with your head.” She swung her teaspoon at Zak. He ducked and giggled, knocking the teapot off its stand. Hadi caught it adroitly, his mouth a tight line.

  “Hadi?” Willow nudged him gently. “Pick a character?”

  Hadi cleared his throat. “I’m just trying to remember, ah, who was at that party?” He rocked back on his heels, head cocked to one side. “Let’s see. There was Alice, but I’d look silly in her dress.” That got the kids giggling, and Hadi’s lips quirked up. “Then the caterpillar, of course. Think I’d make a good bug?” He raised his fingers to his temples and waggled them like antennae. This time, Willow laughed, an indecorous snort.

  “Oh, no. I’ve got it.” Hadi sat up straight. “I’m the Daaah-mouse,” he drawled, in the worst English accent Willow had ever heard. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He picked up the teapot and poured for Willow. No water came out, and he gasped in comic surprise. “Oh, dear. It’s empty.”

  “Here, Dormouse. Let me fill that for you.” Willow reached for the pot, and her fingers brushed Hadi’s. Static sparked and she yelped, and Hadi caught the pot. He handed it back to her, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. A giddy wave washed over her, a sense of danger and possibility. His smile felt like a dare, the way he held her eye.

  “Be right back.” Willow stood up quickly and hurried to the bathroom. Her reflection seemed to mock her as she filled the pot with warm water. She was blushing like a schoolgirl, all starry-eyed. Hadi had that effect on her, something about his voice, or that stern way he looked at her. Like any moment, he might order her to...to what?

  Come closer.

  She shivered all over and caught her breath.

  Kiss me.

  His lips would be hot, his cheek rough with stubble. He’d take her, pull her close, his hand on her hip. She’d reach up and touch him, and he’d—

  “Mom?”

  She jumped, and the pot slipped, spilling water down her arm. “Coming,” she called, and she hurried back out. She sat beside Hadi this time and passed the pot to Zak. Hadi shifted as she sat back, so his shoulder bumped hers. She could feel the heat of his skin, smell his sharp aftershave. He wasn’t breathing, she realized, holding his breath as he watched Zak fill his bowl.

  Zak tipped the pot carefully, an inch at a time. He pulled off a flawless pour and beamed ear to ear. “There you go, Dormouse. That should wake you up. Meow.”

  “Thank you, Cheshire Cat.” Hadi sipped his water. He’d gone lax next to Willow, all the tension draining out of him with Zak’s success. He took his turn as perfectly as always.

  “You might have messed up just a little,” said Lale. “I wanted a reason to say ‘Off with your head!’”

  “I’m sure I’ll accommodate you, Your Majesty.” Willow reached for the pot.

  “Left paw, White Rabbit.” Hadi touched her hand. Zak and Lale giggled, but Willow barely heard them. Her pulse rushed in her ears, a sudden hot thrill.

  He’s funny, she thought. And he’s good at the daddy thing when he’s not all stressed out. Not only that, but he’s—

  She fumbled her pour, rapping the spout on Lale’s bowl. That got Lale laughing, so she bungled her turn. But when Zak’s pour came round again, he managed it to perfection. Willow looked up just in time to catch Hadi’s reaction—a grin so broad, so radiant, she couldn’t help but grin back. He was proud, no mistake, a father cheering for his son.

  Lale clapped her hands. “Do it again.”

  “No way. My turn. We do it in order.” Hadi claimed the pot, winking. Willow watched him fill her bowl, and her heart filled with joy. If this was the real Hadi, she’d have no complaints.

  6

  Music spilled from the sitting room and over the terrace, someone having tea perhaps, or Caasi entertaining. Hadi heard it and frowned, hoping he hadn’t been spotted. Out here it was peaceful, in the golden-hour garden. Bees hummed and roses nodded. Along the path, willows whispered, but their gossip ruffled no feathers. Soon sunset would come and scatter stars over Mehara. Hadi turned his steps toward the rose garden, but Lale’s laughter rang out, and he swung back to look for her.

  “Lale?”

  Zak yelped and giggled, and Lale joined in. Hadi could see them now, kneeling in the sitting room. Willow was with them, her back to the windows. A sliver of sun cut across her shoulder and nestled in her hair. Hadi wanted to follow it, trace that sunbeam up her arm and tuck her hair behind her ear. It looked soft, he thought, as fine as milkweed fluff. He banished the thought but couldn’t bring himself to look away. The declining light had lent Willow a gilded aura, like Titania sprung to life. Like a fairy tale, he thought, and then Lale called out. She was waving—no, beckoning. He’d been discovered. Hadi shook off his reverie and sauntered up the terrace.

  “Miss Mandrake, good evening.” He composed his face into a stern look as he took in the scene. “What’s this? Another tea ceremony?”

  “Zak and Lale are coaching me.” Willow made a face. “I kind of blew today’s lesson.”