A soft, rattling inhalation breaks the stillness. King Halim shakes his head. “Sarai, I—”
“Let me tell you something, Father. I have done everything in my power to become this ideal princess, this perfect reflection of you. All the while—” I choke, suck in air, try again. “All the while, I feel myself slipping farther out of reach. It’s clear I’ll never live up to yourimpossible expectations. So I wonder: Why bother saving my life in the first place? As far as I can see, it was nothing but a waste of time.”
Tuleen gasps.
A hard breath shudders out of me, and another. Before long, the sobs will descend. I intend to be far from this room when that occurs. “It would have been better for you to let me die. At least then you wouldn’t be living in a state of perpetual disappointment.”
King Halim has never appeared smaller beneath the blankets, his mouth hanging open in dismay, eyes darkened by turmoil.
Quietly, I let myself out.
18
“YOU’RESURE THIS IS ALLright?” Tuleen asks me, studying the plaque before us in uncertainty.
Roshar Hammad. Royal Tailor.
“Absolutely.” A swiftrat-tat-tatagainst his door. “And I want to apologize again for the scheduling hiccup,” I say. We were supposed to meet Roshar three days ago, but Prince Balior insisted on a ride through the city, then another darkwalker was spotted lurking in the palace grounds, which forced Turleen and I to shelter in our respective rooms until the threat was quelled.
“It’s no trouble, really,” she replies. “I’m just happy Roshar was able to accommodate us.”
Less than a heartbeat later, it swings open. Roshar’s wire-rimmed spectacles magnify his long-lashed eyes. His robe is a bright shade of orange, his trousers a contrasting blue.
The man positively preens in Tuleen’s presence. “Your Highness.” He makes a deep bow toward my sister-in-law. “And Your Other Highness.” A shallower bow to me, the oaf.
“Tuleen, I’d like to formally introduce you to Roshar Hammad.” I gesture at him as he straightens, adjusting his hair to his liking. “Not only does he have excellent taste in clothes, but he has excellent taste in pastries as well.”
Tuleen smiles shyly. “Please,” she says. “Call me Tuleen.”
First-name basis with Ammara’s queen-to-be? Roshar looks about ready to faint. “Come. Let Roshar see what we have to work with.”
Inside his workroom, my sister-in-law examines the numerous works-in-progress curiously. A high-collared robe studded with clear beads draws her eye. The breadth in the shoulders signify a male garment, and the embellishment suggests a significant event, likely a wedding or funeral. Meanwhile, Roshar snags his measuring tape and begins to circle Tuleen, lower lip caught between his teeth.
“You have a gorgeous figure, very petite.” He stops, tilts his head this way and that. “I’m thinking empire waist, gossamer fabric at the bodice. No pleats. We don’t want Ammara’s future queen to look outdated.”
As he speaks, he pulls a small notebook from his pocket and begins to jot down ideas with a piece of charcoal. Then he snaps the notebook closed. “Let me take your measurements, dear, then I’ll gather some fabric samples. All right?”
Dazed, Tuleen nods, watching him waltz to the other side of the room.
“He has that effect on people,” I say to her.
“Oh!” Tuleen startles, and both hands fly to her mouth. “I forgot to tell him my favorite color!”
I snag her arm before she can approach Roshar, shaking my head in disapproval. “I wouldn’t,” I whisper.
“No?” Her voice drops to match mine. “Why not?”
“There are only two things you need to know about Roshar. The first is that he hates the color gray. Absolutely despises it.” Those who have commissioned him to design a gray dress or robe generally aren’t heard from again, interestingly enough. “The second is that he does not like being told what to do.”
My sister-in-law steps back in surprise. “But I’m not telling him what to do. I just thought if he knew my favorite color, it might make the process a bit easier for him…” Tuleen trails off as I slowly shake my head. “No?”
“No.” Sweeping an arm around her back, I guide her away from Roshar, just in case she decides to act rashly. “You’re making the rightdecision,” I assure her. “Trust me. Roshar has never steered me wrong. He has a gift. Your gown will be stunning, whatever the color or style.”
While Roshar busies himself cutting fabric, Tuleen and I take a seat in the armchairs near the window. Beyond the palace walls, the streets have already begun to transform for the festival. Thousands of flowers have been strung along the walkways, between the shop rooftops. My heart sinks as I scan the courtyard below. No sign of Notus.
“How long have you known Roshar?” Tuleen asks, settling in.
“About a decade, give or take. He was the only person aside from Fahim who was willing to put up with me.” Ten years later, he remains my only friend.
