“Rough day?” asks Roshar.
If only he knew. I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the tension between my eyes to dissipate. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I would trade places with you in a heartbeat.”
Roshartsksas though I’m admitting to some horrible offense. “You can’t mean that. I may be the royal tailor, but at the end of the day, I am still a tailor.”
Yet he is unburdened, and free.
I glance around the room. It is draped in riotous color: ruby and citrine and amber and jade. Heaps of fabric weigh down the long tables shoved against the walls. Various works-in-progress hang from the ceiling, including a long, ivory robe embellished in silver thread.
Roshar is equally embellished: scarlet trousers, tawny robe, white headscarf. I am forever in awe at how far my friend has come. Ten years ago, he was but a lowly apprentice. Now, he is tailor to the royal family.
“What’s on your mind, dear?”
Nervous energy bristles under my skin. It flows down my left arm, through my fingertips, into a subtletap-tapagainst the chair arm in a rhythm I have not thought of in years. Even now, the melody that accompanies this rhythm shimmers against my eardrums in a ghostly echo of the past. I flinch and curl my fingers into a fist.
“Once again,” I say, “I fear I fall short in my father’s eyes.”
“Is that all?” he asks with too much knowing, taking a seat in a neighboring chair.
No. It is not even the half of it.
“I never say the right things. I continually dishonor him. My actions are humiliating, disgraceful, unwanted.” I clench my jaw in an effort to ward off the rising shame. “Sometimes I wonder if my father wouldn’t prefer that Fahim were here in my stead.” And me buried beneath the earth.
Roshar’s expression falls into a rare somberness. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” I whisper. I very well do.
Reaching out, he takes my hand between his thin, bandaged fingers. Blood spots the cloth where one too many needles have pricked him. Customarily, no man may touch an unmarried woman. But why should I not accept comfort when it is offered? I am to die in just over a month, and the affection of a friend is much needed. Besides, Roshar prefers men in his bed, not women.
Springing upright, Roshar moves to the opposite side of the room and returns with a plate bearing a small pomegranate tart. Wordlessly, he sets the plate in my hand, passes over a fork. “You look like you need it.”
My smile wavers in gratitude. “Thank you.” I was born into privilege, Ammara’s riches my inheritance, yet I have but one friend. I do not trust the women at court. They slip their fingers between the bars as though I am a bird in a cage, offering me morsels, crumbs. Apparently, I am only good enough for favors.
“All right.” Roshar plops onto a stool upholstered in olive green fabric, a cup of refreshing mint tea in hand. “Tell me what happened.”
Gently, I tap the tines of my fork against the plate. “I met the man I am to eventually marry this morning.”
“I see.” He takes a sip. “Let me guess. He was dreadfully dull.”
I shrug. “I haven’t formed an opinion of him yet.” Though I appreciated Prince Balior’s effort to shield me from Father’s ire. These initial weeks, the prince and I will court, until the engagement is formalized. Then: marriage. “And… there’s more.”
“Oh?” Roshar perks up, takes another sip.
I abandon all propriety and shove the entire pastry into my mouth. Through bulging cheeks, I manage, “Notus has returned.”
Roshar spews his tea everywhere. “What!”
I mop the tea from my face with a square of cloth, mouth quirked. “Must I repeat myself?”
He snaps into motion: across the room, to the door, the window, back to the stool. “By the gods, Sarai. You can’t just drop this information into my lap without warning.” Gradually, his astonishment hones itself into a bright, eager curiosity. “When did this happen? Why? Have you seen him? I need details.”
I respond around the sweet acidity of pomegranate jam. Our meeting occurred just this morning. No, I was not aware he had returned. Yes, Father knows of his presence. Oh, and he appointed Notus as a member of the Royal Guard.
“The Royal Guard? Oh, goodness. I need to sit.” He collapses onto the stool, fanning himself with one of his sketches. “Does Amir know?” A sharp gasp sounds as his hand flies to his mouth. “Can you imagine the bloodshed?”
My stomach quivers with unease, and I set the plate aside. Perhaps I should not have eaten so much so quickly. “No,” I reply. “He’s still on his honeymoon.” Lucky him, that he should be granted the opportunity of seeing the world while I am expected to remain here, forever tied to the prince. “I’m sure it will be fine. He has more important things to worry about than petty revenge.”
Roshar’s gaze communicates his disagreement, but thankfully, he doesn’t press the issue. “How are you though, truly?” His eyes soften behind his glasses. “It’s been years since he left, but…”
