The next morning, upon arriving at my desk, I was greeted with a surprise phone call from the Information Minister. He wanted me to stop by his office before my second interview with Lena.

I was curious and a little worried. Had I done something wrong? Screwed up on the protocol? I felt as though I should brace myself for the meeting.

When I got there, the minister was wearing his shirtsleeves and his usual bland expression. He stood up and began pacing around as I settled into a chair.

“Your interview schedule has been revised,” he said, handing me a copy.

I looked at the schedule. My interview for today had been deleted but several new time slots had been added to the following week,

“Oh, what’s the reason for the changes?” I asked, my reporter’s curiosity taking over my social niceties.

He responded by glaring at me. I took in a breath, as mortified by my own impetuousness as his disdain. He didn’t bother answering the question.

“That will be all,” he said curtly.

I stood up to go, still smarting from my faux pas. Of course the Sultan’s wife didn’t have to give any explanation for her decisions. And who the hell was I to question her anyway? Just a commoner, a foreigner who had been gracefully allowed into the inner sanctum and was in danger of being tossed out of it.

“Oh there’s one more thing you should know,” he said, just as I was turning to leave. The bland smile had disappeared. I waited, curious. He cleared his throat and looked me squarely in the eye.

“Her Majesty is not well. She was recently diagnosed with brain cancer,” he said quietly.

“Oh my God.” This sudden disclosure took me completely by surprise.

“That’s off the record. Understand?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Just so you know.”

“Certainly. Thank you, minister.”

I felt the blood drain from my face as I moved to the door, my hand trembling as I grabbed the handle and let myself out. Lena. Brain cancer. The news was so shocking, so unexpected. Was she dying? My mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions.

I hurried back to the office and stared at the notes I had typed up the day before. How could I write a fluffy piece about her now, knowing what I did? There was a lump in my throat but I didn’t want to give in to my feelings or my fear. I still had a job to do. I packed up my background material and my notes and shoved the whole lot into my shoulder bag. I’d deal with my emotions later. For now, I had to get my questions prepared for the next interview, next week.