“I was.”
“Prove it.”
If I am right in thinking that the girl is about ten, then Father would have been in his mid-fifties. The dress she wears… I spot a stain near the waist. Dark red—cherry juice. I wrack my brain, go further into my memories. I was supposed to wear that dress during a performance to celebrate Father’s nameday—a disaster. Amir and I fought. I stained my dress at breakfast. Fahim ignored everyone, except for the girl he chased around the ballroom. Nobody had paid much attention to my performance. Except the king.
“You and your teacher, Ibramin, performed a piece for King Halim on the violin,” I say. “He cried, your father.”
The girl harrumphs. “I suppose you were there, but I really don’t remember you.”
That’s all right. I do not need her to remember me. It is enough that I remember her.
“You are far from home,” I point out, as a songbird flits onto a nearby branch. “May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“You may ask.” She drops the bouquet onto her lap. “Doesn’t mean I’m obligated to answer you.”
Was I really like this as a child? My tongue dearly loves a duel, but it doesn’t seem productive to put my younger self in her place, especially when I know how fragile she really is. “Fair enough.”
Leaning back on my palms, I watch the grass ripple beneath a temperate breeze. It cools the perspiration beading along my nape. I look to the sky, for it is vast and unknowable, yet always my attention returns to the river, its gentle hush. Water carries its own rhythm. Though I attempt to predict the cadence, it will forever remain out of my grasp.
In the corner of my eye, young Sarai hunches further over her knees. She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I don’t know.”
I angle toward her. We sit near enough that I could easily rest a hand on her shoulder, were I to reach out. Although, knowing my temperament as a child, I can’t say I would trust that she wouldn’t retaliate. “What don’t you know?” I ask, my voice gentle, motherly.
“You asked what I’m doing here. My answer is I don’t know.” Her shoulders creep toward her ears, and she wipes at the stain on her dress to no avail. “I come here when I want to be alone. It’s quiet.”
Of course this would feel like a memory, because itisa memory. As a child, I would retreat inward. I traded fluted pillars and rigid marble for the expansive wilds of this space when the world became too much. I stared into the imaginary river and wondered where it might lead me: away from Father’s expectations? A place of freedom?
“You’re right,” I say. “It is quiet.” The birdsong, the river, the grassy hills. It holds its own magic.
“Was.” My younger self glowers at me. “Itwasquiet.”
I shake my head in amusement. “You’re quite talkative.”
She looks downright offended. “I’mtalkative?” She tosses a hand in an impressive display of dramatics. Roshar would be proud. “You’re the one who’s talking to me!”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Did I ask you to stop?”
“No.” I smile at her, but to my dismay, her expression crumples, and she shields it behind her hands. A soft cry reaches me.
“Sarai,” I whisper.
Her head snaps up, tear-filled gaze wide with bewilderment. “How do you know my name?”
I reach for her. How can I not? Taking that small hand in mine, I fold the chill of her fingers into the warmth of my palm, the only shelter I can provide. “Remember what I told you? We met long ago.” Gently, I squeeze her hand. “What’s wrong? Why do you cry?”
The little girl shakes her head. She can’t express it. It is too dangerous to show vulnerability. But— “Because I’m sad,” she whispers.
“About what?”
“Father. It was his birthday, remember? Amir and I were arguing, and somehow I didn’t see the attendant carrying the plates of food, and I knocked into him, and the plates shattered and the food spilled, and Amir was laughing at me, and I was crying, and Father was so,soangry, saying I embarrassed him, dishonored him.” Her chin wrinkles; tears slide down her cheeks. “When I tried to explain, he sent me to my room and…” A garbled wheeze catches behind her teeth. “It’s not fair. Why am I always the one to blame?”
I remember now. It hurt at the time. I questioned my sanity and my character. I wondered why Father couldn’t love me first.
“I just want a friend,” she whispers, pained. “A real friend I’m free to be myself with.”
“I’m your friend, Sarai.” My hands cradle her sweet, sad face. “You can be free with me. You can let go.”
