ALIZEH WAS ON BOTH KNEES in a corner of the grand sitting room, hand frozen on her floor brush; her face was so close to the ground she could almost see her reflection in the glossy stone. She dared not breathe as she listened to the familiar sound of tea filling a teacup, the burbling rip of air as known to her as her own name. Excepting the elixir of water, Alizeh had never much cared for food or drink, but she loved tea as much as anyone in Ardunia. Tea drinking was so entrenched in the culture that it was as common as breathing, even for Jinn, and it sent a little flutter through her chest to be so close to the brew now.
Of course, Alizeh was not supposed to be here.
She’d been sent to scrub this particular corner only after a large bird had flown through the window and promptly defecated all over the marble floor.
She’d not known Duchess Jamilah would be present.
Though it was not as if Alizeh would get in trouble for doing her job; no, the girl’s concern was that if anyone saw her in the same room as the mistress of the house, she’d be promptly dismissed and sent to work elsewhere. Servants were not allowed to dawdle for long in rooms where occupants of the house were present. She was to do her job and be gone as quickly as possible—but for the last five minutes, Alizeh had been scrubbing the same clean spot.
She did not want to go.
Alizeh had never seen Duchess Jamilah before, not up close, and though she could not exactly see the woman now, Alizeh’s curiosity grew only by the second. From beneath the finely carved legs of the stiff couches, Alizeh was able to observe a horizontal stripe of the woman. Every so often the
duchess stood without warning, then sat back down. Then stood up again— and changed seats.
Alizeh was fascinated.
She caught another sliver of the woman’s hem then, the peek of her slippers as she moved for the fourth time in as many minutes. Even from this skewed vantage Alizeh could tell that the lady wore a crinoline under her skirts, which at this early hour was not only unusual, but a bit gauche. For ten thirty in the morning, Duchess Jamilah was supremely overdressed with nowhere to go. Doubtless, then, she was expecting company.
It was this last thought that inspired a terrifying flip in Alizeh’s stomach.
In the two days since the announcement of the prince’s arrival in Setar, Mrs. Amina had worked the servants nearly to death, in accordance with orders issued by the lady of the house herself. Alizeh could not help now but wonder whether the highly anticipated moment had finally arrived—and whether Alizeh herself might see the prince again.
Quickly, she returned her eyes to the floor.
Her heart had begun to pound in her chest at the prospect. Why?
Alizeh had not allowed herself to think much of the prince in the last couple of days. For some unfathomable reason, the devil had forewarned her of the young man—and every day Alizeh grew only more baffled as to why. Indeed what had, at first, seemed so foreboding had only recently been proven toothless: the prince was neither a monster nor a murderer of children.
Not only had Omid’s recent visit dispelled any lingering concerns Alizeh might’ve had about the young man’s motivations toward the boy, but Alizeh herself now carried evidence of the prince’s kindness. Apart from sparing her a fight with a shadowy figure, he’d returned her parcels in the midst of a rainstorm—and never mind how he’d known to find her. She’d decided no longer to dwell on that uncertainty, for she didn’t see the point.
The devil’s warnings had always been convoluted.
Iblees, Alizeh had learned, was consistent only as an omen. His brief, flickering appearances in her life were followed always by misery and upheaval—and this much, at least, had already proven to be true.
The rest, she would not torture herself over.
What’s more, Alizeh doubted the prince spared her a single thought; in fact, she would be astonished if he’d not altogether forgotten their fleeting
interaction. These days, Alizeh had precious few faces to look upon and recall, but there was no reason the prince of Ardunia should remember that, for a single hour, a poor servant girl had existed in his life.
No, it did not matter who was coming to visit. It shouldn’t matter. What held Alizeh’s attention was this: the rustling of Duchess Jamilah’s skirts as she positioned herself in the crook of yet another armchair.
The woman crossed, then uncrossed her ankles. She shook out her hem, draping the material to be shown to its best advantage, and then pointed her toes so that the rounded tips of her satin slippers would peek out from under her skirts, calling attention to her narrow, dainty feet.
Alizeh almost smiled.
If Duchess Jamilah was indeed expecting a visit from the prince, the current situation was only more perplexing. The woman was the prince’s aunt. She was nearly thrice his age. Watching this grand lady reduce herself to these pedestrian displays of nervousness and pretension was both entertaining and surprising; and proved the perfect diversion for Alizeh’s boiling, chaotic mind.
She’d had quite enough of her own troubles.
Alizeh placed her floor brush on the polished stone and fought back a sudden wave of emotion. By the time she’d arrived home the evening prior, she’d been left but three hours to sleep before the work bell, and she spent two out of three tossing restlessly on her cot. A low-level anxiety hummed even now within her, not merely a consequence of being almost murdered
—nor even the murdering she’d done herself—but of the young man who’d kneeled before her in the night.
Your Majesty.
Her parents had always told her this moment would come, but so many years had passed without word that Alizeh had long ago ceased waiting. The first year after her mother’s death she’d survived the long, bleak days only by holding with both hands to hope; she felt certain she would be shortly found, would be rescued. Surely, if she was so important, someone would be along to protect her?
Day after day, no one had come.
Alizeh was thirteen years old the day her house was reduced to ash; she’d no friends who might offer her shelter. She scavenged the wreckage of her home for its surviving, mutilated bits of gold and silver, and these she
sold, at a great loss, for the necessary sewing and weaving supplies she still owned today.
As a precaution against revealing her identity, Alizeh moved from town to town with some frequency; for in that hopeful first year, it would not occur to her to take a position as a snoda. Instead, she pursued work as a seamstress, making her way south—over the course of years—from one hamlet to a village, from a village to a town, from a town to a small city. She took any job, no matter how small, sleeping wherever she found a reliable place to collapse. She comforted herself with the assurance that the unbearable days would soon come to an end, that imminently she would be found.
Five years, and no one had come.
No one had been there to spare her the gallows. No one had arrived to offer her a path to safety upon arrival in each new town; no one had been around to guide her to a gentle river or stream in the unnavigable crush of the city. No one came for her when she’d nearly died of thirst; or later, when she’d taken a desperate drink of sewer water and was poisoned so badly she’d been briefly paralyzed.
For two weeks Alizeh had lain in a frozen gutter, her body wracked by violent seizures. She had only enough energy to make herself invisible—to spare herself the worst harassment. She was certain back then, as she stared up at the silver moon, her lips chapped with frost and dehydration, that she would die there in the street, and die alone.
Long ago she’d ceased living with the hope of being rescued. Even when she was hunted and besieged by the worst of men and women, she no longer cried out for help—not when her many calls had gone unanswered.
Alizeh had learned, instead, to rely on herself.
Hers had been a lonely, agonizing journey of survival. That someone had finally found her seemed impossible, and she was gripped now by both hope and fear, alternating between the two with such frequency she thought she might go mad.
Was it foolish, she wondered, to allow herself to feel happiness for even a moment?
She shifted, then, felt the nosta move against her chest. She’d hidden the orb in the only safe place she could think of: just inside her corset, the polished glass pressed close to her skin. She felt the nosta glow hot and cold as conversations ebbed and flowed around her, every change in temperature
a reminder of what had happened the evening prior. The nosta had turned out to be a gift in many ways, for without it she might’ve begun to wonder whether her memories of the night before were, in fact, a dream.
Hazan, he’d said his name was.
Alizeh took a deep breath. It gave her great comfort to know that he remembered her parents, that he had ever been to her childhood home. It made her past life—and his place in her present—feel suddenly real, affirmed by more than her own imaginings. Still, she was plagued; not only by optimism and apprehension, but another, more shameful concern: she wasn’t sure how she felt about being found.
A long time ago, Alizeh had been ready.
From infancy she’d been prepared for the day she’d be called upon to lead, to be a force for change for her own people. To build for them a home, to shepherd them to safety. To peace.
Now Alizeh did not know who she was.
She lifted her bandaged hands, staring at them as if they did not belong to her; as if she’d never seen them before.
What had she become?
She startled, suddenly, at the distant, muffled sounds of voices. Alizeh had been so lost in her own thoughts she’d not noticed the new shift in Duchess Jamilah’s position, nor the sudden commotion in the front hall.
Alizeh crouched impossibly closer to the ground and peered through gaps in the furniture. Duchess Jamilah was the picture of affected indifference: the casual way she held her teacup, the sigh she gave as she faux-perused a column in Setar’s local newspaper, the Daftar. The publication was famous for being printed on dusty green pages and had long been a point of interest for Alizeh, who could rarely spare the coin to purchase a copy. She squinted at it now, trying to read the day’s headline upside down. She’d only ever been able to peek at the articles on occasion, but—
Alizeh started violently.
She heard the prince’s voice, far away at first, and then all at once sharp and clear, the heels of his boots connecting with marble. She covered her mouth with one hand, doubling over so as not to be seen. With her free hand she clutched the floor brush, wondering now at her own foolishness.
How on earth would she escape unnoticed?
The room was without warning swarmed by servants carrying tea trays and cakes; one was collecting the prince’s heavy, moss-colored coat—no cloak today—and a golden mace Alizeh had never before seen him carry. Among the bustling staff was Mrs. Amina, who had no doubt invented an excuse to be present upon the prince’s arrival. If Mrs. Amina caught Alizeh here now—in the presence of the prince—she’d likely beat the girl just to teach her a lesson.
Alizeh swallowed.
There was no chance she’d go unseen. By the time the visit was over, she was certain every servant in the house would’ve fabricated a reason to pass through this room for a glimpse of their royal visitor.
Unfortunately for Alizeh, she could only see his boots.
“Yes, thank you,” he said in response to a query about tea. Alizeh froze.
The prince’s response came during a chance moment of quiet, his words ringing out so clearly Alizeh thought she might reach out and touch them. His voice was just as rich and complex as she remembered, but he sounded different today. Not unkind, exactly, but neither did he sound pleased.
“I’m afraid I slept poorly last night,” he was explaining to his aunt. “More tea is always good.”
“Oh, my dear,” Duchess Jamilah said breathlessly. “Why should you sleep poorly? Are you not comfortable at the palace? Would you not prefer staying awhile here, in your old room? I’ve got it all prep—”
“My aunt is very kind,” he said quietly. “I thank you, but I’m quite comfortable in my own rooms. Forgive me for speaking thoughtlessly; I meant not to cause you worry.” A pause. “I’m certain I’ll sleep better tonight.”
“Well if you’re sure—” “I am.”
Another pause.
“You may go,” Duchess Jamilah said in a colder tone, ostensibly to the servants present.
Alizeh’s pulse quickened—this was her chance. If she could only scramble upright in time, she might disappear with the others, decant herself into another room, busy herself with a task. It would be a mite tricky to manage with a soapy bucket and brush in hand, but she’d no choice.
She’d have to make it work if she didn’t want to arrive at the ball tonight with a swollen eye and a bruised cheek.
As quietly—and quickly—as she was able, Alizeh jumped to her feet. She all but ran to catch up with the others, but the hot water in her bucket sloshed as she moved, splashing her clothes—and, she feared, the floor.
For a mere half second Alizeh glanced back to scan the marble for a spill, when she suddenly slipped in the very puddle for which she was searching.
She gasped, reflexively throwing her arms out to recapture her balance, and only made the situation worse. The jerky movement disturbed the bucket entirely, heaving a scalding wave of soapy water all over her skirts
—and onto the floor.
Alizeh dropped the bucket in horror.
In her desperation to flee the scene she moved without thinking, the toe of her boot promptly catching on the wet, dragging hem of her skirt. She fell forward with cruel force, catching herself with both hands only after slamming one knee into the marble.
Pain rocketed through her, branching up her leg; Alizeh dared not shout out, muting the cry in her lungs to a single, dull sound of discomfort.
In vain she implored herself to stand, but the pain was so paralyzing she could hardly think straight; indeed, she could hardly breathe. Tears pricked her eyes in shame, in anguish.
Alizeh had feared many times for the end of her tenure at Baz House, but she knew now without question that this was her finish. She’d be cast out on to the street for this, and today, of all days—when she needed a safe place to ready herself for the ball—
“You stupid, thoughtless girl,” Mrs. Amina cried, rushing toward her. “What have you done? Get up this instant!”
Mrs. Amina didn’t wait for Alizeh to move; she grabbed the girl roughly by the arm and wrenched her upright, and Alizeh came as close to screaming as she dared, her breath releasing in a tortured gasp.
“I— I beg your pardon, ma’am. It was an acci—”
Mrs. Amina shoved her, hard, in the direction of the kitchens, and Alizeh stumbled, agony shooting up her injured leg. She caught herself against the wall, excuses dying in her throat. “I’m so desperately sorry.”
“You’re going to clean this up, girl, and then you’re going to clear out your things and get out of this house.” Mrs. Amina was livid, her chest
heaving with an anger even Alizeh had never before witnessed. The housekeeper lifted her hand as if to slap the girl. “Of all the days to be clumsy and brainless. I should have you whipped fo—”
“Put down your hand.”
Mrs. Amina froze, blinking at the unexpected sound of his voice. The housekeeper’s hand fell with theatrical slow motion as she turned, confusion sharpening in her eyes, in the language of her body.
“I— I beg your pardon, sire—”
“Step away from the girl.” The prince’s voice was low and murderous, his eyes flashing a shade of black so fathomless it terrified even Alizeh to look at him. “You forget yourself, ma’am. It is illegal under Ardunian law to beat servants.”
Mrs. Amina gasped, then fell into a deep curtsy. “But— Sire—”
“I will not repeat myself again. Step away from the girl or I will have you arrested.”
Mrs. Amina released a sudden, fearful sob, scrambling inelegantly to put distance between herself and Alizeh, whose heart was beating so fast she felt both dizzy and faint with fear. Pain spasmed relentlessly in her knee, taking her breath away. She did not know what to do with herself. She hardly knew where to look.
There was a sudden rustling of skirts.
“Oh, my dear!” Duchess Jamilah rushed over, grabbing hold of the prince’s arm. “I beg you don’t trouble yourself. The fault is mine alone for exposing you to such ineptitude. I pray you will forgive me for subjecting you to this incivility, and for inspiring your discomfort—”
“My dear aunt, you misunderstand me. My discomfort, if any, is inspired only by an overt disregard for the laws that govern our empire, and which we have a duty at all times to obey.”
Duchess Jamilah gave a nervous, breathy laugh. “Your strict adherence to our governance does you a great service, my dear, but surely you must see that the girl deserves to be punished—that Mrs. Amina was only doing as she saw fit t—”
The prince turned sharply, disengaging himself from his aunt. “You surprise me,” he said. “Surely you don’t mean you would condone such cruelty against your servants? The girl was carrying a bucket of water and slipped. There was no harm done to anyone but herself. You would toss her into the street over a mere accident?”
Duchess Jamilah directed a strained smile at the prince, then glared at the housekeeper. “Get out of my sight,” she said acidly. “And take the girl with you.”
Mrs. Amina paled.
She bobbed a curtsy, said, “Yes, Your Grace,” and grabbed Alizeh’s arm, jerking her forward. Alizeh stumbled on her throbbing leg and nearly bit through her tongue to keep from crying out.
Under the pretense of offering assistance, Mrs. Amina drew the girl closer. “If I could, I’d snap your neck right now,” she hissed. “And don’t you dare forget it.”
Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut.
The housekeeper shoved Alizeh down the hall, the sound of Duchess Jamilah’s voice fading with her every step.
“Your heart is one of legend,” the duchess was saying. “Of course, we all heard the story of your saving that filthy southern child, but now you come to the defense of a snoda? Kamran, my dear, you are too good for us. Come, let us take tea in my personal parlor, where we might have more quiet to reflect . . .”
Kamran.
His name was Kamran.
Alizeh did not know why this revelation comforted her as she was dragged away—or even why she cared.
Though maybe, she wondered, this was the reason why the devil had shown her his face. Maybe it was for this moment. Maybe because his was the last face she’d think of before her life was ripped apart.
Yet again.
