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a fruit stand at a souk, sitting in a chair in the next room, his hands resting on the wooden arms. But he was gone, vanished in the furious hellhole of el Alamein, never to return.
    She dried with the thin hotel towel and crept into bed. Three box-like sections of ticking filled with straw crackled when she moved, and the tired springs creaked and groaned with each shift of her body. She slept fitfully, waiting for morning, dreaming of Rafi again, dreaming that he was still alive, that el Alamein had never happened, that there was no war, that they were still in Jerusalem.
    In the morning, she clambered into the ball-and-claw tub, holding on to the high rim with both hands. The water was lukewarm and rusty and when she got out, she slipped on the tile floor, reached out and caught herself on the edge of the sink. Was this how the day would go? Stumbling, righting yourself just in time?
    She put on the pale green dress, dumped the dirty clothes from the duffel on the bed to be laundered, and went downstairs. Breakfast in the garden there included strong coffee, pickled fish, and cheese, with fresh butter on a crisp, circular roll covered with sesame seeds.
    Colonel Glubb came for her at ten in a gleaming black Packard town car, with tiny Trans-Jordan flags fluttering atop the front fenders.
    At the palace, a guard from the Desert Patrol saluted, opened the door ceremoniously and motioned them through. Glubb led her down a long corridor, moving briskly past wall hangings of silk rugs woven into garden scenes or portraits of the royal family, past arched windows that framed a bright rose garden. Breathless, Lily scurried to keep up.
    “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Glubb turned and gave her a reassuring smile. “He’s a gentleman all through. When he first came to Trans-Jordan, he held court Bedouin style on the outskirts of Amman.”
    Glubb slowed. Lily caught up with him and they walked in step. She realized that they were marching.
    “Trans-Jordan has changed since Abdullah took over. Things are orderly now. He’s a good ruler. When he came here, there were four rivals factions. He achieved a measure of unity. Different from the infighting of other Arab countries.”
    They had reached the end of the corridor where a guard stood before an ornate pair of carved wooden doors.
    “Wait here,” Glubb said. The guard stood aside. “I’ll see if His Majesty is ready.”
    Glubb disappeared into the room beyond, and the guard resumed his position before the doors and in front of Lily. His legs apart, his rifle cradled at a slant, he stood motionless, staring at Lily. A bee buzzed along the corridor and danced between them. From the garden, Lily thought.
    The guard’s eyes followed the bee and he smiled at Lily. When it landed on his shoulder, he flicked it off with snap of his finger and winked at Lily. She stepped back.
    The guard opened the double doors. With a sweep of his arm, he invited Lily to enter the room beyond—a long room with a travertine floor. Tables with mother of pearl inlay, armchairs with tasseled cushions, and elaborate folding chairs were scattered on a pair of fine, palace-size Nain silk rugs. Along one long wall, windows with graceful pointed arches bordered with mosaics opened onto a dappled garden with a pool and fountains. A large inlaid ebony desk surrounded by tiles set into the wall stood against another.
    At the far end of the room, the Emir was seated on a dais in a cushioned chair with mother-of-pearl inlays. A handsome child with dark, liquid eyes—his grandson, Prince Hussein—clung to the leg of his chair and rested his head on the Emir’s knee. The Emir’s son, Crown Prince Talal, sat cross-legged on a cushion on his right, and Glubb Pasha moved to stand behind him on his left.
    Lily was offered a seat below the dais to the right of the Emir.
    The Emir leaned forward. “And how is my friend Gideon Weil?” His smile encouraged Lily.
    “He’s been arrested.”
    The Emir