“You aren’t needed here,” she said. “And you should be in your chambers. You’re still in disgrace, Mehr, like it or not.” Arwa had quieted a little. She was trying to lift her head. Maryam’s grip tightened, then softened again, as she stroked Arwa’s hair in a motion meant to soothe her. “Would you like one of my guards to show you the way out?”
The guardswoman to Maryam’s left took a small step forward. Her eyes on Mehr were hard. She was just waiting for Maryam to give the word, her hands flexing eagerly at her sides.
The women’s quarters were Maryam’s domain, the place where she ruled with the same assurance as a Governor ruled in the stead of his distant Emperor. Her servants were loyal to a fault, and their dislike of Mehr was an obedient shadow of Maryam’s own. But some—like the guardswoman standing before her—looked at Mehr with a hatred that rose not from loyalty or expediency but from a true rejection of Mehr’s nature, her choices, her blood.
Mehr looked back, then forced herself to look away.
The rage in Mehr hadn’t faded over the last few hours, merely hardened like diamond flesh. It was the only thing keeping her whole, keeping her standing strong, but it also made her hungry to hurt the guardswoman before her, or better yet, hurt Maryam all over again. Viciousness burned in her blood. Only the sight of Maryam’s hand against Arwa’s hair cracked the armor of anger inside her.
Maryam’s love for Arwa was a harsh thing, by turns tender and possessive. Mehr knew Maryam would continue to deny Arwa the Amrithi traditions that were her right. She would mold Arwa into the child she wanted. But she would also keep Arwasafe, which was more than Mehr could do for her sister, no matter how much she loved her.
The desire to make Maryam hurt the way she was hurting was pointless. It wouldn’t win her a moment with Arwa; it wouldn’t allow her the opportunity to say good-bye. All the power lay in Maryam’s hands. Rage would keep Mehr going until all this was over, but for the task of swaying Maryam to her will, the truth was a better tool.
“You’re leaving,” Mehr said softly. “And when you return, I’ll be gone. You’ve won. She’s yours.” She kept her gaze fixed and her head high. They weren’t reluctant mother and daughter any longer. As of now, they would be nothing to one another, and as close to equals as it was possible for them to be. “Let me talk to my sister,” Mehr said.
Something flickered in Maryam’s eyes—an emotion Mehr couldn’t read, or name. She raised her hand and gave Arwa’s cheek a brush with her knuckles.
“Come and take her,” she said. “Bring her back when she is calm.”
Mehr walked up to the dais. Maryam took her by the shoulder and drew her down, fingers digging hard into Mehr’s skin. Her breath was soft against Mehr’s hair.
“You won’t need to fear for Arwa,” she whispered, too softly, Mehr hoped, for Arwa to hear her. “I’m going to raise her as my own. She will be my good Ambhan daughter, loved and sheltered, and one day she will forget she ever had a sister. I promise, Mehr: I will make sure she doesn’t miss you at all.”
Maryam’s grip loosened. Not meeting her eyes, Mehr took Arwa into her arms. Arwa was too heavy to be carried easily, but she wrapped her arms and legs around Mehr, and that made it easier. Mehr could feel her tears dampening her shoulder. She turned and walked out of the Hall toward her own chambers.
“Hush now,” she murmured against Arwa’s hair. “Hush, my dove, hush.”
But Arwa would not hush. So as Mehr walked down familiar corridors to her own chambers, she began to sing an old lullaby, the kind that had always comforted Arwa when she was very small. Her voice, along with Arwa’s sobs, echoed through the corridors.
As Mehr slipped into her own chambers, her sister still held in her arms, she heard Arwa’s voice pipe up. “What are you singing?”
“A lullaby,” Mehr said. “Our birth mother used to sing it to us.”
Mehr carried Arwa into her room. She sat down on the bed. Arwa didn’t let go of her, but she began to hum a shaky copy of Mehr’s song. Then she stopped. “Am I singing it right?” she asked.
Mehr sang the lullaby over again and Arwa’s voice followed hers. Her little sister’s voice was hoarse from crying, but she had a good ear for music and picked the tune up quickly. By the time she’d mastered the simple lullaby, she had stopped weeping entirely.
“I don’t want to go,” Arwa said.
“Maryam will be with you,” Mehr said. “You’ll be quite safe. And it will be an adventure.”
Arwa sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I still don’t want to go,” she said. “Why can’t you come too?”
“I’m meeting a suitor,” Mehr said. “I’ll be having my own adventure.”
“I can’t come?”
Mehr pinched her cheek, making Arwa scowl. “You’re not old enough, little sister.”
“I don’t want to go without you.”
“Oh, Arwa,” Mehr said sadly. She saw Arwa’s scowl begin to melt, her lower lip trembling. She stood up. “Don’t. You’re—”
“I’m not too old to cry,” Arwa said fiercely. “I’m not. Don’t say it.”
“I have something to give you,” Mehr said. “For your journey.”
She found what she needed lying in the living room, and brought it back to the bedroom. She placed it on Arwa’s lap. “Be very careful,” she said. “It’s very sharp.”
