Night had fallen an hour ago, and the child had only now returned?
Inwardly, Kamran sighed.
He was going out to the stables anyway; he figured he may as well track down Omid and take him along, assign him a new role, make the necessary introductions to the groom. Not only would this give him an excellent pretense for leaving the grounds wearing his cloak, but Omid would then become someone else’s charge, making him one less responsibility Kamran need worry about in his absence.
Resolved, the prince followed the muted resonance of the boy’s voice, noting as he drew closer to the source that, even from this distance, Omid appeared to be deeply agitated.
Kamran frowned.
The boy was not, in fact, speaking; he wasarguing, exchanging frustrations with what sounded like an angry footman—and no wonder. Omid was shouting in Feshtoon, clearly oblivious to the fact that most footmen in Setar would not be educated enough to speak the language of his southern province.
Kamran picked up his pace then, striding impatiently toward the front hall, intending to resolve the matter at once—when he heard something altogether more upsetting.
Miss Huda.
Her voice was unmistakable, and Kamran experienced a spike of alarm at the sound. He could neither imagine why Miss Huda had returned to the palace at this hour nor what she was doing in Omid’s company, but the young woman was now screeching at the angry footman, her shouts growing only more shrill as she cried—
“I most certainly willnotstep aside—and don’t youdaretouch me—”
“Miss, please, you’re not allowed to be here—this is a private hour for the royal household, the prince does not receive unsolicited guests in the evening—”
“But she’s withme,” Omid said in accented Ardanz before giving up and carrying on in his native tongue. “We’re here on official orders! For the prince! You must let us pass!”
“Are you making any sense of this?” said a footman. “I can’t understand a word he’s saying—”
“What he’s saying,” Miss Huda interjected angrily, “is that we are here by order of the prince himself, and mark my words: my father, the Lojjan ambassador, will be hearing about this—”
Kamran thought his head might explode.
The audacity of this absurd young woman to invoke his name in the interest of her own immunity— Oh, he was already pitying himself for being forced to endure her company for the second time in the same day. He turned thecorner too sharply, wishing he might leave these idiots to their fate when, suddenly, the entire abhorrent scene came into view.
Kamran stopped short, his body going slack in disbelief.
Twenty-Two
OMID AND MISS HUDA STOODcenter stage, both tall and too proud in equally awful, ill-fitting attire, shouting in different languages at a trio of stubborn footmen. In the wings stood Deen, the wiry apothecarist, and Mrs. Amina, the brutal housekeeper of Baz House; this unlikely duo stood silently side by side, each with a hand clapped over their mouths in horror.
Angels above.
Kamran had given the boy asingletask.
He’d charged Omid with bringing in the apothecarist and the housekeeper for a round of questioning. After Miss Huda’s unexpected arrival at the palace this morning, he’d been inspired to interview all others who’d known or conversed with Alizeh at length—and though Kamran had spoken once, briefly, with the apothecarist while incognito, he’d intended to ask the man more direct questions this time around.
Now, he knew nothing but regret.
“I’m sorry, miss,” said a footman who didn’t sound sorry at all. “I can’t let you pass. I have no idea who this boy is”—he nodded to Omid—“and I don’t care who your father is. So unless you’re hoping to land yourself in prison tonight, step aside.”
Miss Huda reared back, clasping a hand to her chest with no small amount of drama. “Howdareyou—”
“This is your final warning,” said another footman.
“Oh, just you wait,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height. “Just wait until I speak to the prince about this. My associate and I are here on royal orders—”
“Yourassociate?” Kamran said sharply, emerging from the shadows.
“Your Highness!” cried a chorus of breathless voices.
All bowed and scraped before him in an almost choreographed motion, all but Omid, the boy peeling off from the crowd to approach Kamran with wild eyes, his head shaking hard as he spoke in rapid-fire Feshtoon:
