KAMRAN CHASED AFTER HER, RACING down the stairs like a fool, as if he could ever catch up to a ghost, as if even finding her would be enough. How the prince managed in his mind to reconcile his desire for the girl and his loyalty to his king he did not know, but even as his better sense condemned him for his dissidence, he could not deny the terrifying feelings taking root inside him. His actions were both treacherous and futile, and still he could not stop himself; could not calm the pounding of his heart nor the madness that gripped him.
He had to see her—to speak with her just once more— “Where on earth have you been, child?”
Kamran came to a sharp, disorienting halt on the landing, his mind returning to his body with the force of a thunderclap.
His aunt was staring up at him from just steps below, one hand clutching her skirts, the other gripping the banister. They were standing but two flights above the main floor, but he saw—in the light sheen at her brow, in the sharp creasing of her forehead—just how much it had cost the older woman to seek him out.
Kamran slowed.
Fatigue hit him as suddenly as if he’d been struck by a physical blow, and he grabbed the banister, steadying himself against the assault.
He closed his eyes.
“Forgive me,” he said, quietly catching his breath. “I lost track of time.” He heard his aunt make a tsk of disapproval, and opened his eyes to see that she was looking him over, scrutinizing his hair, his eyes—even the sleeves of his sweater, which he’d at some point pulled up his forearms.
Quietly, Kamran put himself to rights, running an absent hand over his hair, pushing the black waves out of his eyes.
It scared him to realize how easily his heart and mind had parted.
Duchess Jamilah pursed her lips and held out her hand, and Kamran quickly closed the distance between them, tucking her delicate fingers into the crook of his elbow. Carefully, he helped the older woman walk back down the stairs.
“So,” she said. “You say you lost track of time.” Kamran made a noncommittal sound.
“I see.” His aunt sighed. “You seem to have done a thorough job wandering the house, in any case. The servants are all in a dither over your brooding. First the street boy, then the snoda, now you’re mooning about the house, staring longingly out of windows. They all think you a tragic, hopeless romantic, and I’ll be surprised if all their gossip doesn’t earn you a few inches in the paper tomorrow.” She hesitated on a step; glanced up at him. “Take care, child. The younger girls might begin to swoon at the mere sight of you.”
Kamran forced a smile. “You have a gift, dear aunt. Your flattery is always the most elaborate fiction.”
She gave a rasp of a laugh. “You think I exaggerate?” “I think you enjoy exaggerating.”
She gave him a light smack on the arm. “Impertinent child.” This time, his smile was genuine.
They’d reached the main floor, were now walking through the great room, and still, Kamran’s heart refused to slow its erratic beating. He’d been in darkness so long it was a shock to see the sun still shining through the tall windows. He turned away from the glare, burying the sharp pang that moved through him at the sight. Kamran knew a young woman who would dearly enjoy the sun, who would find solace in its light.
The moon is a great comfort to me.
He realized, with some despair, that everything would now remind him of her. The very sun and moon, the shifting of lightness and dark.
Pink roses.
There—they were just there, a vivid spray in a vase, the arrangement centered on a high table in the room they now occupied. Kamran disengaged from his aunt and wandered toward the bouquet without thinking; carefully, he drew a bloom from its vessel, grazing the velvet
petals with his fingers before holding the flower to his nose, inhaling the intoxicating scent.
His aunt gave a sharp laugh, and Kamran flinched.
“You must have mercy, my dear,” she said. “News of our melancholy prince will spread far beyond Setar if you do not soon exercise some discretion.”
With great care, the prince returned the flower to its vase. “Is our world really so ridiculous,” he said quietly, “that my every action is newsworthy, ripe for dissection? Am I not allowed a modicum of humanity? Can I not enjoy simple beauty without censure and suspicion?”
“That you even ask such a question tells me you are not yourself.” She drew closer. “Kamran, you will one day be king. The people look to your disposition as a bellwether of all to come; the temperature of your heart will define the tenor of your rule, which will in turn affect every aspect of their lives. Surely you do not forget this. You could not resent the people their curiosity—not when you know how dearly your life concerns their own.”
“Certainly not,” he said with affected calm. “How could I? I should never resent them their fears, nor could I ever forget the shackles that so loudly ornament my every waking moment.”
His aunt took a deep, wavering breath, and accepted the prince’s proffered arm. They resumed their slow walk.
“You begin to scare me, child,” she said softly. “Will you not tell me what has disordered you so?”
Disordered.
Yes.
Kamran had been rearranged. He felt it; felt that his heart had moved, that his ribs had closed like a fist around his lungs. He was different, out of alignment, and he did not know whether this feeling would fade.
Alizeh.
He still heard the whisper of her voice, the way she’d pressed the shape of her own name into the darkness between them; the way she’d gasped when he kissed her. She’d touched him with a tenderness that drove him wild, had looked into his eyes with a sincerity that broke him.
From the first there’d been no falseness in her manner, no pretension, no agonizing self-consciousness. Alizeh had been neither impressed by the prince nor intimidated; Kamran knew without a doubt that she’d judged him
entirely on his own merits, his crown be damned. That she’d found him worthy, that she’d given herself to him for even a moment—
Not until that very second did he realize how much he’d longed for her good opinion. Her judgment of his character had somehow become crucial to his judgment of himself.
How?
He did not know, he did not care; he was not one for questioning the movements of his heart. He recognized only that she’d been so much more than he’d known to hope for, and it had altered him: her mind as sharp as her heart; her smile as overwhelming as her tears. She’d suffered so much in her life that Kamran had not known what to expect; he would have understood had she been withdrawn and cynical, but she was instead vibrant with feeling, alive in every emotion, mercifully giving of herself in all ways.
He could still feel her body under his hands, the scent of her skin suffusing his head, his every thought. His own skin grew hot with the memories of her breathless sounds, the way she’d gone soft in his arms. The way she’d tasted.
He wanted to put his fist through a wall. “My dear?”
Kamran came back to himself with a sharp breath.
“Forgive me,” he said, gently clearing his throat. “I am besieged now only by the most unimaginative of human afflictions. I slept poorly last night, and I’ve not eaten much today. I’m certain my mood will cool after we’ve enjoyed our meal together. Shall we go through for luncheon?”
“Oh, my dear”—his aunt hesitated, consternation knitting her brow
—“I’m afraid we must forgo luncheon today. Your minister has come to fetch you.”
Kamran turned sharply to face her. “Hazan is here?”
“I’m afraid so.” She looked away. “He’s been waiting some time now, and I daresay he’s not altogether pleased about it. He says your presence is required back at the palace? Something to do with the ball, I imagine.”
“Ah.” Kamran gave a nod. “Indeed.” A lie.
If Hazan had come for him personally—had not trusted a messenger to inspire his hasty return—then something was very wrong.
“A shame,” his aunt said, forcing cheerfulness, “that your visit was so brief.”
“Please accept my sincerest apologies,” Kamran said, lowering his eyes. “I feel I have been nothing but distracted and disappointing to you this day.” They came to a stop in the front hall. “Would you allow me to make up for this lost visit with another?”
She brightened at that. “That sounds just fine, my dear. You know you are welcome here anytime. You need only name the day.”
Kamran took his aunt’s hand and kissed it, bowing at the waist before her. When he met her eyes again, she’d gone pink in the face.
“Until next time, then.” “Your Highness.”
Kamran turned at the heated sound of his minister’s voice. Hazan could not—and made no effort, in any case—to hide his irritation.
Kamran forced a smile. “Heavens, Hazan, are you having a fit? Can you not allow me even to say goodbye to my aunt?”
The minister did not acknowledge this. “The carriage is waiting outside, sire. Worry not about your horse, as I’ve arranged for his safe return to the palace.”
“I see,” said the prince quietly. He knew Hazan well enough; something was definitely wrong.
A servant handed Kamran his coat, another, his staff. In a matter of moments he’d bid goodbye to his aunt, walked the short path to the carriage, and settled into the seat across from his minister.
The carriage door had only just slammed shut when Kamran’s expression grew grave.
“Go on, then,” he said.
Hazan sighed. “We have received word, sire, from Tulan.”
