“Then I consent,” she said. “I will be your wife.”
When Mehr’s father had married Maryam, their wedding had taken place in the bride’s birth household, as was traditional. Neither Mehr nor Arwa had been present. But Mehr had attended a few marriage ceremonies for nobles in Irinah, and she knew that her impending wedding was meant to be a joyful occasion, celebrated for weeks on end with feasts and dance and music. The wedding of the Governor’s firstborn daughter—illegitimate though she was—should have been an especially lavish celebration.
The household was quiet. Suren had invited Mehr to eat dinner with him, and Mehr had accepted. They sat together and shared small dishes of rich, slow-cooked meat and lentil broth. As they ate, Mehr’s father told her there would be no time for celebration. She would have a simple wedding ceremony in two days’ time—all the time that the mystics, in their benevolence, had allowed. No poems would be recited, no music would be played, and no gifts would be shared between families. The ceremony would consist of nothing but a simple exchange of family seals. In time, Amun would remove Mehr’s seal from his own neck—when, exactly, her father didn’t say—but Mehr would wear her husband’s seal for the rest of her natural life.
Mehr could not understand why the mystics wanted the marriage to proceed so quickly. She had a terrible suspicion that they did not want to allow her or her father time to find a way to save her from the fate they had decided for her.
Her father spoke in stilted, awkward sentences that eventually petered out into silence. Usually it was up to a mother to tell her child about marriage, but Mehr’s birth mother was in exile, her stepmother was gone, and Lalita was missing. Mothers were in short supply. In their absence, her father did his best, but the responsibility ill-suited him. Feeling rather uncomfortable herself, Mehr did nothing to encourage her father when his voice faded and he returned to his meal.
Mehr wasn’t particularly hungry, but the meat was soft, the lentils faintly sweet, and it was easier to concentrate on her food than to consider what lay in store for her. She would have been content to continue picking at her meal in peaceable silence, but her father had other ideas. He looked at her.
“Your mother,” he began.
Mehr set down the dish she was holding with a thump.
“No, Father,” Mehr said. “I don’t want to talk about her.” They had never discussed her mother’s departure. She had no idea what he wanted to say, and she didn’t care. Whatever it was—an apology, an excuse, an explanation—it had come far too late. “I spoke about her to the mystics because I had no choice. Will you force me to speak like they did?”
She had never spoken to her father like this before. But there was no anger in her father’s expression, only resignation.
“Your mother,” he said, gently, “never told me why she feared and hated the Emperor. I thought I understood her reasons, but now I see I knew nothing.”
What little appetite Mehr had left was gone. But she ate another bite, giving herself time to get her emotions back under control.
“I will send a messenger to inform Maryam about your—marriage,” her father said.
Mehr nodded silently. She tried not to think of her sister journeying away from Irinah never to return. She tried not to think of Maryam’s soft, spiteful words.I promise, Mehr: I will make sure she doesn’t miss you at all.
As if sensing the direction of Mehr’s thoughts, her father spoke again.
“Arwa won’t return here,” he said. “No matter what happens I will keep her out of harm’s way. On my honor, I promise you that.”
His eyes were flinty. Some of his old strength showed itself in the shape of his shoulders, his raised head. She found herself believing him.
Would he send Arwa away forever, to be raised far from him and from Irinah in safety? Would he allow Maryam to stay with her, or give Arwa away entirely, leaving her to be raised by strangers? Would he truly choose to lose both of his daughters in one terrible blow? Mehr didn’t want to ask. There was no answer he could offer that would not in some way break her heart.
“Thank you,” Mehr said softly, instead.
She looked down at her meal. No. She couldn’t eat any more. She couldn’t sit here any longer either. Her father’s guilt was an oppressive weight. She could feel him looking at her still, things unspoken hovering in the air around him.
Your mother—
“Mehr,” he said. She raised her head reluctantly. “If you would like to write a message to Arwa, I will ensure that it’s delivered.”
It was a small kindness, but it brought a lump to Mehr’s throat.
“I don’t know what to tell her,” Mehr confessed.
“Think on it,” he said. “The messenger won’t leave until morning. You have time.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dear Arwa—
No.
Dear sister—
Mehr stopped, took a breath, and began again.
