Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye

      He pulled the sword from its sheath and raised it above his head. ‘I am Azhar, King of Qaryma,’ he declared. ‘I am the source of all power, all wisdom, all happiness. I am the infallible one. I make the laws and I enact the laws. None can question me. None can harm me. I am Azhar, King of Qaryma. Beloved and revered.’

      The familiar words brought a lump to Julia’s throat. She had no option but to accept that it truly was over. He was Azhar, King of Qaryma, and she was Julia Trevelyan, botanist cum artist from Cornwall with some outstanding deathbed promises to fulfil. Soon they would be separated by thousands of miles. The distance made no difference. The vows Azhar made had already torn them asunder. Azhar, King of Qaryma, stood alone at the pinnacle of power, quite out of her reach.

      For ever.

      * * *

      Julia said no farewells. Her journey from the palace through the deserted streets of Al-Qaryma was very different from the one she had made just a few weeks before. The streets were carpeted with the rose petals which had been thrown at the feet of the new King’s cavalcade as he paraded through the city, while she made her final preparations to leave. It looked as if everyone in Al-Qaryma was at the palace joining in the celebrations. All was silent apart from the jangle of the bells on the reins of her own much more modest cavalcade.

      She was escorted by a guard to her first overnight stop, the name of the oasis unfamiliar to her. There, she would meet her new dragoman and the men who would escort her all the way to Cairo. Azhar had obtained all the relevant papers for her. He had arranged for the caravan of camels and mules, a fresh supply of gold, and he had armed her guard. He had refused to accept her bank notes, asking instead that she carry his letters to his agent in Cairo. The letters would put an end to his trading business. Ten years of work, ten years of Azhar’s determination and dedication, of his ambition and his flair, to be ended by a packet of letters. Julia patted the package, tied in a leather purse around her waist, along with Daniel’s watch. Now that it was no longer ticking away her time in Qaryma, she found the watch reassuring. It reminded her of Daniel, but it also reminded her of Azhar, who had gone to such trouble to get it back for her.

      The two landscapes she had painted of Cornwall, she had left for Azhar in her rooms, along with one of the paintings she had made of the secret garden in the Fourth Court. She hoped he would not find them a painful reminder. She hoped he would look at them and think of her. She hoped, she was ashamed to admit, that he would miss her.

      The camels left the city streets and turned towards the desert. Tonight she would sleep under the stars once more. She would take solace in their beauty. She would not look back in sorrow to the desert Prince she had left behind, she would look forward in anticipation to the life she would make for herself. She would not regret her time here in Qaryma because she was done with looking back. There could have been no more perfect idyll.

      But it was over. She allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder. The heat haze made the city shimmer like a mirage. And like all mirages, it was not real. It really was over.