She vented her anger quckly, then sat at the table and immediately drew a facsimile of the maps she’d seen, glad more than ever for her perfect sense of direction and quick mind.

Buraida was the nearest city north of Anaiza. The capital Riyadh, was southwest. The neutral zone between Iraq, Kuwait and Saudi was north by northeast. Exactly how far the borders and the capital were in miles, she could only estimate. The one fact she was certain of was she’d flown under a hundred miles inland from the border to an unmarked military base. Could that be this Hafaro Kyuhyun have mentioned?

Now, Sora ha dto figure out how she was going to get back there. She twirled a strand of hair round her fingers, staring at her crude map, thinking.

There was simply no way she could leave the sheik’s enclave dress the way she was. Ali had had the brains not to provide her with the most necessary garment, an abba. Even if she got hold of one, Sora knew she would stand out like a sore thumb. She was too tall and too fair, even with a tan.

Sora dropped her chin onto her fist and stared at the intricate carved screen in front of her. Beyond it were glass windows and the rooftop garden overlooking the courtyard. She needed a disguise. And it would have to be good enough to fool everyone. Or else of the kind that would make most people look away and discount her as inconsequential, and nothing. She could have the run-off-the-mill Saudis doing double takes to look at her like that boy had just done.

The boy1 the smooth-faced, beardless boy! Sora dropped her pen and ran out the roof to the far corner where she could see the kitchen yard. Stretched across one corner of that enclave was a wash line with the day’s laundy hanging in the hot, hot sun.

The boy!

Sora darted down the outer steps, hurrying across the inner courts. The exertion immediately affected her, causing damp sweat to pour from her body. The sun broiled everything at this time of the day.

In the garage, the man leaned against a shaded wall and snorted. Sora tiptoed past him. Slipped into the kitchen courtyard and ducked under the wash lines. She selected pants, a heavy cotton tunic and one of those long concealing choir-type robes every Arab seemed to favour.

She might have snatched a head cloth, except all the ones hanging reminded her of her mother’s kitchen towels. Which could very well mean they need clan – or tribe specific. She’d be better off not identifying to any specific family. She took a plain with one that could have been a cup  towel or a diaper, for all she knew.

As quickly as she’d gone out, she was back in her suite with her booty. The trip had left her soaked with seat. Hiding the garments, she stripped off her own and when to the bath to have a long, thoughtful soak.

While she lounged in the tub, she thought about the men who worked at the palace gardens. They wore turbans twisted around their heads. Oh there are plenty of ways to hide her hair. She must collect bottles from Ali’s generous drink cart in the lounge and fill the. She must be prepared, ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

Thus decided on her plan of action, she would need a map. That was her very next order of business.