In the center of the passage, a man stands with his back to me. I gasp, my heartbeat growing increasingly erratic. It is hope and disbelief twined so tightly they cannot be differentiated. The man turns. His eyes are like mine, like Father’s, like Amir’s.
“Fahim,” I whisper.
My brother smiles. “Hello, Sarai.”
I step forward, dazed, so dazed I do not even register the impossibility of his presence. The gloom of the labyrinth vanishes, and I stand in Fahim’s bedroom, his bedsheets twisted, documents cluttering his desk. “How—” But I haven’t the words. Truthfully, I don’t care how it’s possible that Fahim stands before me. He’s here. It is everything I want.
“It’s been some time, no?” he asks tentatively, slipping his hands into his pockets. The points of his countenance—cheek, nose, jawbone—are softened by the low light.
A corner of my mouth hitches, more sadness than anything. “It has,” I say. “You look good.” He wears a yellow headscarf and matching trousers, a breezy robe the color of dates hitting him mid-thigh. It is his eyes, however, that claim my attention. They harbor no shadows, yet there is a deadness to them: windows without light. “Life has been so hard with you gone.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Let’s not fret about the past, hmm? We’re together again.” Another step forward. “We can make up for lost time.”
Sarai!
I frown. Another voice, deep and warm and stabilizing, seems to echo from a great distance. But that hardly matters now, with my brother before me.
Shifting both the violin and bow to my left hand, I close the final stretch between Fahim and I. He does not appear particularly enthused to see me. It stings. At the very least, I would have expected an embrace, relief at finding one another again.
“There’s so much you have missed, so much I wish to tell you,” I murmur. And we have time now. It is a gift I refuse to squander. “I’ve been such a fool about so many things, and I don’t know who to trust anymore. Ammara is in peril. The darkwalkers grow stronger, and—” I hesitate, then say, “Ibramin has departed the palace. I thought you should know. He’s gone to teach a young boy with promise. I can’t help but feel like he has abandoned me.”
When Fahim doesn’t respond, I reach forward to cup my eldest brother’s cheek. His skin is like ice.
“You’re chilled,” I say to him in concern. My arm drops. “Are you ill?”
“Sarai.” His gaze meets mine squarely. “Put down my violin.”
I glance at the instrument. For whatever reason, my fingers tighten around the neck. “I found it,” I say in slight confusion. But where, exactly? I know better than to enter Fahim’s chambers without permission. I do not remember approaching his door. Nor do I remember knocking.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I know how you feel about me touching your things.” Of course he would ask me to put down the violin. I’m not sure why that proves to be difficult at the moment. “Will you play for me?”
Our surroundings blur for the briefest moment. When I next blink, however, nothing appears out of the ordinary. I must have imagined it.
But Fahim… he has become a different person entirely, his face grooved, harsh and unfamiliar.
“It wasn’t fair,” he growls. “Why should I give up my gift when you had the freedom to pursue yours?” His sleeves stir as he lifts his hands to his chest. “And then to learn you were throwing it away, and for what? A man you hardly knew?”
I recoil from the unexpected venom in his words—and the truth he wields as a weapon. “I wasn’t throwing anything away,” I dispute. “You didn’t even talk to me about what I felt toward Notus, or music. You made a decision without my input.”
But Fahim isn’t listening. “Please understand, Sarai. There are things I must do, responsibilities I must uphold.” Once more, he glances at the instrument. “But I won’t be able to do so until you let go of the violin.” His mouth loses its curve then. “Let me take it off your hands.”
I peer closer at my brother, disquieted. Why do his eyes hold such emptiness? Why must I release the violin?
Sarai, it’s a trap!
My surroundings waver, a sheet of darkness momentarily blotting out the sight of my brother and his chamber, yet it snaps back intoplace. Only this time, Fahim has disappeared, and I peer down one of the bright, open corridors of the palace.
The setting sun is a jewel. It sets fire to the orange, yellow, and red mosaic tiling the far wall. At its end, I spot Fahim dressed in an ornate yellow robe, walking with a slump to his posture. His skin is wan, sickly. There, too, is the disheveled state of his hair.
“Fahim.” My throat closes around his name, snuffing it out.
I watch my brother shuffle toward his bedroom at the end of the hall. Look at his hands, how tightly they clamp, and the rounded stoop of his spine. Evening will soon fall. Where are the guards?
As he reaches the door, I scream, “Fahim!”
My brother halts, hand on the doorknob, and glances over his shoulder, just once. He frowns, as if having heard my voice. But it is his eyes I notice most. They are empty, as if the light has already gone.
