“Come,” the princess said, amused. “You must have found some sort of entertainment.”
“The solace of prayer,” said Gulshera. “No more than that.”
Arwa thought of archery and gossip and wine, and kept her mouth carefully shut.
“I have brought a companion with me,” said Gulshera. She gestured at Arwa. “Lady Arwa. The young widow I told you of, my lady.”
“Princess,” said Arwa. She bowed her head, lowering her eyes. “I am honored by your kindness.”
“Oh, she is young,” Jihan said softly. She touched a cool hand to Arwa’s chin, raising her head. “Where is your family, my dear?”
Arwa hesitated. “My husband had no living kin, my lady.”
“Your father, then?”
“My father is in Hara, my lady.”
“What is his name? His status?”
“Suren, my lady. Son of Karan.” Her father’s name was a simple enough answer. As for status…
She swallowed, then said: “My father was Governor of Irinah—once.”
“Ah.” Jihan’s voice was an alto, rich and soft. She was the Emperor’s daughter. No doubt she knew the history of the Governor of Irinah’s fall from imperial favor. Her expression was gentle, her gaze shrewd. “And now?”
“My father has been unwell,” said Arwa. “Very unwell, my lady. By the Emperor’s grace, he survives. But he has been unable to restore the family’s fortunes, or regain imperial favor, although he ardently desires it.”
“And your mother?”
A beat. The knife in Arwa’s lungs turned, slow and inexorable, bleeding the breath from her.
What could she say here—before a room of watchful noblewomen, before imperial guards and a musician, before a deferential serving girl pouring fresh wine—about her mother?
Jihan knew the truth of Arwa’s blood. She had received all of Gulshera’s careful letters; she had summoned Arwa on the basis of that blood alone. She knew Arwa’s mother was some long-gone Amrithi woman, a barbarian who consorted with spirits and made no vows or contracts, a woman with no place in the Ambhan Empire. She knew the wife of Arwa’s father was not Arwa’s birth mother, for all that she had raised her and molded her and taught her how to survive, tainted blood or no.
But Arwa could not bring herself to speak of her Amrithi mother before the women of court. She touched a finger to her lip. Lowered it. Said, “Lady Maryam. She has raised me with… great generosity and kindness.”
“You have a good lineage, my dear,” said Jihan. “A shame about your husband. Gulshera told me he passed away at Darez Fort. You have my most sincere sympathies.”
A rustle of unease ran through the reclining noblewomen. One of them drew her shawl over her face, as if she could not bear to look at Arwa a moment longer. Jihan gazed at Arwa unwavering. Then she smiled.
“I have a mind to go for a walk, while the day is still pleasant and cool,” said Jihan. “Gulshera, you may accompany me. I have missed our talks.”
“Princess,” Gulshera acknowledged.
“Bring your young friend,” said Jihan.
A guardswoman trailed after them as they walked along the corridor. Jihan’s skirt whispered against the floor as she walked, gossamer and beads trailing gently against marble.
“Walk next to me, Gulshera,” said Jihan. “Let me lean on you.”
Gulshera moved closer to the princess, who clasped her arm with great tenderness. Arwa trailed after them awkwardly. Her palms were damp with sweat. She felt foolishly, thrillingly anxious.
She was in the imperial palace. She was following the Emperor’s daughter. She had thrown herself headlong into the service of an imperial scion without thought, without cleverness or reason, but for all her fear—for all that her skin felt tight and her lungs too small—she regretted none of it.
“A tour for you, Arwa,” said Jihan. “My brother Akhtar trusts me to care for his household, and I have done my best to make it a pleasurable home. This palace does not compare to my father’s, of course, but humble though it is, it is my pride.”
Humblewas not a word Arwa would have applied to the opulence around her, but she murmured an acknowledgment regardless. Jihan described the changes she had made in the years of Gulshera’s absence: the swathes of silk to soften the austere marble of the walls; new mosaics set in the floor, deep green and turquoise. She spoke of the artisans she’d cultivated, the musicians one of her women, a niece of the Governor of Hara, had brought into her household as a gift.
