She wondered if Gulshera had noticed the wound on her thumb, where she’d drawn blood with her dagger. She resolved to use her upper arm next time. That would be far easier to hide.
The ring was bone, white and worn smooth from past usage. She slipped it on her thumb and flexed her fingers a little. It was thicker than any glittering ornament made of gold or silver that she’d ever worn before.
“It fits perfectly,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I have a dozen,” said Gulshera with a dismissive shrug. “We’ll see later if it helps your aim.”
Perhaps it would. Arwa had none of Gulshera’s grace of fluidity, but she was improving in slow, undeniable increments. She’d managed to hit the easiest targets, and Gulshera was now encouraging her to improve her accuracy.
“I know you spoke to Rabia,” Gulshera said, watching Arwa admire the ring. “I’m glad to see you recovering, Arwa.”
Recovering.As if Arwa’s grief were a spell of illness she would rise out of, with careful enough tending. Forcing herself not to speak, she raised her tea to her lips.
She had her mouth on the rim of the cup when she heard a sudden shriek. The cup jumped from her hands; hot liquid spilled over the table and the hem of her robe as she scrabbled back, cursing sharply. Gulshera rose to her feet.
“What onearth,” she began.
There was another yell. A rush of footsteps. Without another word, Gulshera turned and strode sharply from the room, turning toward the source of the noise.
Arwa kneeled, wringing liquid from her hem. One of Gulshera’s letters had fallen to the floor in the chaos, and was sodden. She lifted it up. Paused.
The seal was already broken, neatly parted.
Without pausing to think—this, after all, was the kind of opportunity she’d been waiting for—Arwa opened the letter.
Dear Aunt,
If your widows mention unrest in the southern provinces, write to me immediately. Matters between Parviz and Akhtar are not proceeding as I hoped—
Parviz. Akhtar.
She knew those names.
She turned the letter over again, pressing the seal back into place. Her fingers were steady. They should not have been.
Footsteps thudded outside the door. Arwa dropped the letter, back to the floor where she had found it, and left the room.
Other widows were also following the sound of shrieking and yelling. They walked toward the prayer hall. Its entrance was already stoppered up by a crowd of other curious women. Arwa tried to peer over their heads.
“Step back, step back!” Roshana yelled, striding forward. For once, her voice was not soft with feeling. Her habitual worry had alchemized into an air of authority that made the crowd part unthinking around her, allowing her access into the prayer room. Through the gap, Arwa saw Gulshera already standing there, and the source of the noise.
One of the two women who regularly drank and slumbered at the back of the prayer room was crying out hysterically. She was gabbling, fierce words tumbling from her mouth as she pointed at the lattice wall with one shaking hand.
“It was there,” she was saying. “There, right there! Behind the lattice. Rightthere.”
“You didn’t see anything,” another woman said to her, cutting through her words. “By the Emperor’s grace, if you insist in drinking as you do, of course you’ll imagine things—”
“I know what I saw!”
“Dina,” Gulshera said, placing a hand on the hysterical woman’s shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”
“Please, dear,” Roshana added gently.
Dina sucked in a shuddering breath. She dabbed the edge of her shawl hastily against her eyes. “It was just like the stories my mother told me when I was a little girl,” she said. “Just like that.”
Arwa’s stomach clenched. Her face felt strangely numb.
“It had black wings,” Dina was saying. “Gold eyes. Exactly how my own mother described it. It was a daiva. I know it.”
