“To family,” she said, in a loud voice, clear as a bell.
“Jihan,” Masuma said sharply.
Jihan only smiled and drank deep.
The merriment—for what it was worth—continued despite Parviz’s presence, the unease giving the laughter around Arwa a frenzied edge. There would be no visit to Zahir’s workroom tonight. Arwa bore it for as long as she could. Eventually, when other widows had begun to leave and she could see no sign of Gulshera in the throng seated at Jihan’s back, she decided to depart.
She entered the corridor leading away from the dining hall, not far behind a small group of other women, when she felt a soft hand on her arm, spinning her on her feet. Her heart rattled in her chest.
Jihan.
“Arwa,” said Jihan. “You’re leaving so soon?”
“I am, my lady,” said Arwa.
“Why are you veiled?” Her mouth was a play of amusement, lips upturned.
It was oddly absurd to be alone with Jihan, who was constantly in the company of others, surrounded by maidservants and guardswomen and her small coterie of favorites. Arwa was almost sure that Jihan had cornered her only because she had drunk far too much wine.
“Come,” said Jihan. “You may tell me.”
“My lady, forgive me, but your brothers are not family.”
“What reputation do you need to protect, with no husband left to care if you reflect well on him now?”
“My father’s,” Arwa offered, unsure what Jihan sought from her.
“Did he give you leave to come here? No.” Jihan shook her head. “I think you placed the defense of his reputation aside a long time ago. Or he did, when he fell into disgrace, and won my father’s ire.”
“My reputation, then,” Arwa said, some sharpness bleeding into her voice. Jihan blinked at her, as if struck.
“Does your reputation matter so much?” She touched a hand to the end of Arwa’s veil, making the soft gauze flutter. “You are a widow, Arwa. A ghost.”
Arwa remembered Gulshera’s warnings.Jihan likes to test people, she’d told her.Court has teeth and claws, she’d claimed. Arwa felt the weight of Jihan’s regard, and knew all Gulshera’s warnings had been true.
“What else do I have?” Arwa asked.
Jihan laughed at that, a soft laugh. Arwa could hear distant music from the hall. A man’s yell, and more laughter.
“How do you like my brother?” she whispered.
“Which one, my lady?”
“You know which one, ghost. The one I am relying on to save us all, as my true brothers play foolish games while their Empire burns.” She shrugged, all grace. “Akhtar is good enough. For all his pride, he listens. He understands the hard, dull work that builds an Empire. But Parviz…” Sharp turn of her mouth. “Well.”
A breeze entered through the lattice. The nape of Arwa’s neck felt cold.
“I like Lord Zahir well enough,” she said guardedly. “He is a good teacher.”
“Good. That is good. You will do whatever it takes to help him, won’t you?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Try to make him happy,” said Jihan. She sighed and touched a hand to her own cheek, which was rose-tinged with warmth. “Zahir is so very alone. When my mother lived, we protected him together. We assured him a place in her household.Thishousehold.” She touched a proprietary hand to the bejeweled wall as if to say,This is by rights mine.
“But my mother is no more,” she continued, “and politics are… complex. One day, Gods willing, this will be my palace again. But, Arwa, if you wish to please me, think a little less of your reputation. Think of the gift Zahir has, and focus on proving your faithfulness to me, and to a cause far greater than you, in all ways.”
Try to make him happy.
