I lunge, yet am stopped short by an unseen barrier. My voice warbles as I call again, “Fahim…” A yellow robe trimmed in black thread. The same clothing he’d been wearing the day I found him swinging from the rafters.
The image fades. I am back in the labyrinth.
The despair is so much greater in Fahim’s absence. I’ve lost my brother all over again. Is this the labyrinth’s plan? Force me to relive the darkest days of my life until I am driven mad?
A shudder of unease shivers through me, yet I hurry down the passage, ears pricked for any unusual sound. Another turn, and another. At this rate, I would not be surprised if I were going in circles. But there, up ahead—a shift in the gloom. I press forward, violin tucked beneath my chin, bow poised to coax music from its strings. The crumbling walls fall away, and I step into another impossibility: a tapestry of curling vines, hanging branches, sweet-smelling blooms. The palace’s eastern garden.
I glance around warily. In the distance stand two figures, male and female. It is night. Moonlight dribbles through the glass ceiling overhead, splashing the interlocking leaves, painting their waxy coatings in a high shine.
As I ease closer, I recognize the gown the girl wears. Fiery red trimmed in gold. Her hair is secured in a braid. I am both past and present in this moment. Twenty-five years of age, and twelve-year-old Sarai, following the evening of her solo debut. Which means the boy she speaks to is Amir.
It’s not real.But it was, once. This memory, which I have locked away, now thrust into the open.
Following my debut, I’d returned to the palace with my brothers and Ibramin, elated by my performance, yet brokenhearted over Father’s absence. I’d cried, of course. I had desperately wanted Father to witness this monumental accomplishment. Yet when faced with my tears, he only snapped “Stop crying,” before reaching into his desk, pulling free a square of cloth, and tossing it to me. “Wipe your face.”
I did so with a trembling hand. Whatever emotions surged toward the surface, I forced them down. Crushed them to dust.
Afterward, I’d sought solace in the garden, for it was deserted, calm. It was where Amir had found me hours later. He was angry. Apparently, my performance had upset Fahim, who did not wish to see me.
From my position shielded by the leaves, I watch this conversation play out. Yet suddenly, as young Sarai whispers, “I don’t believe you,” I am experiencing things through the eyes of my younger self.
My brother shrugs. It is of no concern to him. “Believe what you will, but I’m not sure Fahim will ever forgive you for taking music from him. It was what he loved most in the world.”
Something wavers in my heart, for I have wondered if Fahim resented me, now that I alone carry music.
“Why are you like this?” I growl, fists clenched at my sides. If I were not afraid of injuring my fingers, I daresay I would wallop Amir in the face. “It’s not my fault Papa made Fahim quit violin. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”
“Jealous?” He barks a laugh.
“Yes. Jealous that I am known to the world, that Fahim is known to the world, while you are left in the dark.” Fahim and Amir, both princes, but only one will carry the crown.
Sarai, can you hear me? Say something!
I ignore the distant plea, unable to look away as Amir’s expression shutters. A long moment passes before he responds. When he does, his voice is so riddled with bitterness it eats at his words. “You’re right. Fahim is heir, not I.” He looks me up and down with noticeable distaste. “Then again, I haven’t stolen music from him. I haven’t paraded my accomplishments in front of him, this life that was promised. I’m not the one who forces him to face that pain daily.”
Turning on his heel, he whacks aside the vines and plunges down the path, vanishing from sight.
I lift a hand, palm pressed to my chest, atop the fresh bruise that blooms in wake of his declaration.It’s not true. Fahim is happy for me. He’s told me so on multiple occasions.
As young Sarai collapses onto a garden bench, I charge through the garden, intending to speak my piece to Amir. Yet the stones beneath my slippers crack, and the sweet blossoms blacken, their scents curdling to rot. Two steps farther, and the garden begins to bleed out, the dense gloom melting into tall windows framed in drapery, an impressive desk that commands the center of Father’s study. A younger version of myself hovers on the threshold of the doorway. Through the crack of the partially open door, I watch Father pen a message, nerves tumbling through my stomach. I know the rules. I am not to disturb Father in his study, but this is important. Lifting my hand, I knock.
His head snaps up, and he frowns. “Sarai. What have I told you about interrupting my work?”
I can see that child so clearly. Her wobbling chin. The uncertainty of entering Father’s office despite the need to burrow into his embrace.It’s not fair,she thinks.
But she takes a breath—for courage—and shuffles forward. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I know I’m breaking the rules, but I wanted to ask you something.”
“Where is Ibramin?” He looks beyond me, face grooved in displeasure. “Shouldn’t you be practicing?”
“I already finished my lesson for the day. Papa—”
He rings a small bell on his desk. Two guards enter the study. “Sir?”
“Please take Sarai back to her rooms.” He returns to his correspondence, not bothering to watch as I’m led away into the hall.
The image changes.
“Papa?” I sit up in bed, blankets clutched to my skinny chest. The darkness of my bedroom looms before me. “Papa!”
