The Desert King’s Housekeeper Bride

He swept out then—leaving Effie blinking on the bed, reeling at the turn of events.

The shame, the appallingness of what had taken place, dimmed by sheer bemusement.

The King had made her a drink and had consoled her in her shame.

King Zakari had made the impossible suddenly better.

On shaky legs she stood, unclipping the suitcase as he had instructed, and pulled back the lid, her hands shaking, her face darkening red as she went through the contents. Her head was tight with sinful curiosity as Christobel and the King’s private arrangement revealed itself further.

Apart from one token maid’s outfit that would be way too tight on Effie, it was silk stockings that slid through her fingers, silver-foil-wrapped condoms that glistened in the make-up bag, suspender belts and sheer bras that wouldn’t cover a pimple, that over and over mocked Effie’s innocence. Lotions and potions that Christobel must use to weave her magic had Effie wide-eyed with shock, and, pulling out a flimsy robe and the spare uniform that were the only remotely decent objects, she quickly slammed the case closed and tried to forget what she’d seen. She’d wear the same clothes all week rather than touch Christobel’s stuff! Having washed out her own underwear and dress to wear in the morning, Effie slipped between the cool sheets. The flimsy robe and uniform lay draped over the chair, should Zakari call her, and Effie willed herself to relax, only she couldn’t. She turned off the small bedside lamp and willed the rest Zakari too had instructed to come to her, but for the first time she defied the King’s orders.

Switching the lamp back on, she retrieved the case. Her eyes narrowed in curiosity this time as slowly she went through the contents, rubbing lipsticks on the backs of her hands, spraying perfume in the air, then, removing the lid on one of the containers, Effie inhaled the sickly sweet smell of depilatory cream. Oh, she might be naive but she wasn’t stupid. Effie knew there were no fancy waxing clinics in Calista as there were on Aristo, that for Christobel to be groomed, she would have to take care of that herself.

Staring down at her own body, Effie could see the coarse hair on her legs, the thick curls that hid her womanhood, and for the first time she cared—cared that they were there. Wishing her body were smooth and soft and beautiful enough… Then cursed herself for even daring to think such things. Ramming the lid back on the container, she angrily turned off the light, refusing to think about it, except her mind wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t give her the quiet she craved.

She had entered a different world today, seen things she’d never thought she would. Effie screwed her eyes tightly closed and willed sleep to come, only it wasn’t the King or the desert that worried her… Her wildest dreams were a pale version to today’s events.

* * *

Here in the desert Zakari liked to prepare his own simple breakfast—

But this morning he was greeted with a feast.

He returned to the aroma of fresh fatir, a sweet pancake pastry Effie had prepared. Tiny bowls with ground almonds in argan oil and honey waited on the table for him, along with cheeses, sweet syrupy fruits and the usual strong, sweet treacle of coffee, but she had also made a refreshing mint tea.

‘This is good,’ Zakari said with unexpected enthusiasm as he took a bite of the fatir. He had the best chefs, was used only to excellent food being served to him, yet fatir, properly prepared, well, there was little better.

‘It’s my mother’s recipe.’ Effie smiled.

‘She is a good cook!’

‘She was.’ He watched her smile falter. ‘She died two years ago. She was once a palace maid at Aristo. She used to make it—’

‘They would not have fatir there,’ Zakari interrupted with a sneer. ‘There it is all French pastries, and croissants. At least here on Calista we have tradition still!’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Effie duly agreed, ‘but my mother worked there many years ago, before I was born.’

‘When King Christos was alive.’ Zakari smiled at the memory of a man he had never met, then graciously conceded the point to Effie. ‘They would have had fatir in the palace then. And argan…’ He dipped the pastry in the rare oil, and offered it to her. Shocked, Effie refused.

‘Sit,’ Zakari ordered. ‘For days I have spoken to no one. As a housekeeper here in the desert you can speak with me when I choose.’ He held out the pastry dripping with oil and she took it. ‘However,’ Zakari reminded, ‘when we return to the palace I will ignore you.’

‘Of course!’ Effie demurred, stunned when he smiled, and lost, just lost, by the effect of that coveted smile when aimed at her.

‘That was a joke,’ Zakari said. ‘If I see you, of course, I will greet you. So how is the argan?’ he asked, as Effie glowed at the thought of the King acknowledging her back at the palace!

‘It’s wonderful.’ She had eaten fatir before, but hers was always sweetened just with honey. The argan oil was a luxury, liquid gold, produced from trees that grew only in Southwest Morocco. It was a delicacy and it tasted divine.

‘It is good for energy,’ Zakari explained. ‘It is also considered…’ he hesitated when he saw a dull flush spread on her cheeks, realising that after yesterday’s goings-on an aphrodisiac perhaps wasn’t required at breakfast this morning ‘…to have many medicinal benefits,’ he offered instead, and as Effie watched that handsome, unscrupulous face again soften with a smile it was easy for her to smile too. ‘My mother too always insisted on fatir.’

‘Your real mother or Queen Anya?’

It was an innocent question, the easiness of their chatter, the informality he had engineered all serving to knock her off guard, but seeing his eyes narrow, the sudden rigidity of his features, Effie could have bitten off her tongue, inwardly cursing herself for forgetting Stavroula’s stern warning, because once again she was in trouble.

‘Your job is to listen!’ Zakari snapped. ‘Not to question.’

‘Of course, Your Highness…’ Effie stood, cheeks flaming, busying herself with clearing dishes away, rueing that she had mentioned a subject that was clearly out of bounds. But as she turned for the staff area Zakari’s words halted her.

‘My first mother.’ His voice was softer now, his eyes kinder, when finally Effie turned around. ‘My first mother insisted we eat fatir in the morning.’

Scared of saying the wrong thing again, Effie nodded.

‘I have enjoyed my breakfast this morning. Tomorrow, though,’ Zakari said, ‘I just want coffee. I like to live simply during my time here.’

‘You can’t go out to the desert without eating!’ Effie snapped her mouth closed, terrified she’d gone too far again, only breathing again when instead of scolding her he took another bite of the fatir she had so skilfully made and again compromised. ‘Coffee and fatir…’ he relented. ‘But that is to be all.’

The winds of yesterday had wreaked change.

As Zakari set off into the desert he surveyed the endlessly shifting landscape.

If lost, the rocks—the constants—would guide him, were guiding him now, Zakari reminded himself, even if he felt abandoned. His search for the missing half of the diamond had taken many twists and turns. Since Aegeus’s death, when he had discovered that the stone had been replaced with a fake, his search had been relentless, taking him to Egypt, to America and to London. Some small Aristan pieces of jewellery had turned up at the most exclusive of auctions, and Zakari had purchased them back anonymously, positive now that Aegeus had kept a lover whom he had showered with gifts—and, Zakari concluded, perhaps even the stone.

But who?

Every lead he had followed seemed to take him further from the truth, every jewel that turned up confused the picture more. There had been rumours she had been a maid, but that search had proved fruitless; rumours too of a mistress during the early years of Aegeus’s marriage, but if there had been, then Aegeus had been more than discreet.

At every turn, there was nothing

That was why he was here, why he had chosen to retreat to the desert. The craziness of the past few months, Aegeus’s death, his son Sebastian relinquishing his right to the throne, his own brothers’ weddings, his pursuit of the stone… Zakari had chosen to clear his head, to come to the rich land and humbly ask for its help.

He wandered, only aimlessly now.

Effie speaking of his mother, daring to speak of his mother, had kindled something… First a flicker of a memory of a time when life was uncomplicated, running through their palace, in another land, another time, the sound of laughter from his mother.

His real mother.

He had not been born to be King of Calista and for a while that had troubled his mind and no doubt the people of Calista too.

His mother had died while giving birth to her seventh child, Zafir. His father, Sheikh Ashraf Al’Farisi, the third son of the ruling family of the Sheikhdom of Hadiya, had, after a period of grieving, fallen in love with Queen Anya, the ruler of Calista.

Unable to have children herself, she had raised and loved Ashraf’s children as her own, and had groomed Zakari to one day be King. A day that still should not have happened, that should still be in the distance, except Ashraf and Anya had been killed in a helicopter crash and the weight of the grieving island had fallen onto his shoulders.