This Woven Kingdom (27 page)

ALIZEH STOOD IN THE MIDDLE
of the busy, bustling path, eyes closed, masked eyes turned up toward the sun.

It was a beautifully bright day, the air sharp with cold, not a cloud in the sky. The world around her was loud with the clop of hooves, the rattle of wheels, savory smoke from a nearby kabob shop coiling around her head. Midday in the royal city of Setar meant the gilded streets were alive with color and commotion, food carts busy with customers, shopkeepers shouting loudly about their wares.

Alizeh was equal parts hopeful and devastated as she stood there, both halves of her heart rife with excuses, all of them compelling. Very soon she'd be forced to examine closely her long list of troubles, but right then she wanted only a moment to breathe, to enjoy the scene.

Tiny finches hopped and tittered along the path while large, glittering crows cawed high in the sky, a few swooping low to perch on the heads and hats of passersby, the better to peck at their baubles. Angry shopkeepers chased after the winged beasts with their broomsticks, one unlucky proprietor accidentally knocking in the head a man who promptly fell over into the capable arms of a street child, who then pinched the man's purse and darted into the crowd. The gentleman cried out, giving chase, but his pursuit of the
small thief was thwarted by the commotion of a nearby pastry shop, which had flung open its doors without warning, unleashing a stream of servants into the madness.

Single file, no fewer than a dozen snodas cut a serpentine path through the crowd, each carrying a broad, circular tray high above their head, each heavy platter laden with baklava and pistachio brittle, soft nougat, syrupy donuts, and spirals of honey-soaked funnel cakes. The heady aroma of rosewater and sugar filled the air as the procession marched past, all maneuvering carefully so as not to disturb the many parked occupants of the path.

Alizeh turned.

Large, colorfully patterned rugs had been rolled out over the golden cobblestone, upon which women in bright, floral chadors sat cross-legged, laughing and sharing gossip as they sorted through bushels of purple saffron flowers. Their deft hands paused only occasionally, and only to sip tea from gilt-rimmed glasses; otherwise their nimble motions did not cease. Over and over they separated styles and stigmas from their lush flowers, adding the ruby-red saffron threads to the growing piles between them.

Alizeh could not move, she was so mesmerized.

The last time she'd dared stop for so long in the street she'd been assaulted by a child thief, and yet—how could she deny herself such an indulgence now, when she'd not been free to enjoy daylight in so long? This living, breathing world was hers to admire for this single moment in time, and she wanted to breathe it in; to luxuriate in the beating heart of civilization.

After tonight, she would never see it again.

If things went well, she'd be gone from here; if they went poorly, she'd have no choice but to flee.

Tears sprang to Alizeh's eyes even as she smiled.

She managed to forge a path through the saffron spreads, stopping only when startled by a display of blooms arranged in the window of a nearby florist: winter roses, butter-colored camellias, and white snowdrops smiled up at her from their cut-crystal vase, and Alizeh was so enchanted by the sight she nearly collided with a farmer, who'd stopped without warning to feed alfalfa to his shaggy goat.

Unsettled, her nerves would not now quiet.

Hastily Alizeh moved aside, wedging herself against the window of a millinery shop. She tried to shutter her mind but it was no good; her subconscious would no longer submit. She was battered at once by a deluge of remembered sensations: the whisper of a voice against her ear, a smile against her cheek, the weight of arms around her body. She still tasted him on her lips, could still summon the silky texture of his hair, the hard line of his jaw under her hand. The memories alone were devastating.

Over and over Alizeh had tried to understand why the devil had warned her of the prince—and even now she was uncertain. Was this it, then?

Was it because of a kiss?

Alizeh tensed, took a breath. Even as her heart raced, her mind cooled. What had transpired between her and the prince was a moment of foolishness for a myriad of reasons—not the least of which was that he was heir to an empire
whose sovereign sought to destroy her. She'd not yet even begun to unpack the ramifications of such a discovery, nor what explanations it might reveal for the beloved friends and family she'd lost to unexplained acts of violence. Did it mean the king had tried to kill her once before? Had it been he who'd issued the orders to murder her parents?

It troubled her that she could not know for certain.

Kamran might've circumvented the orders of his grandfather to help her today, but Alizeh was not a simple girl; she knew that relationships between kin were not so easily severed. The prince might have spared her a moment of kindness, but his allegiance, no doubt, was elsewhere.

Still, Alizeh could not condemn herself too harshly.

Not only had the dalliance been unplanned, it had been an unexpected reprieve—a rare moment of pleasure—from what seemed the interminable darkness of her days. For years she'd wondered whether anyone might ever again touch her with care, or look at her like she mattered.

She did not take lightly such an experience.

Indeed there had been a mercy in it, in its tenderness, which she would now gracefully accept, pocketing the memories before moving forward. Her thoughtless actions would never again be repeated.

Besides, she consoled herself, she and Kamran would never again cross paths, and all the better, though—

A flock of birds at her feet took flight without warning, disquieting Alizeh so thoroughly she gasped and stumbled backward, colliding with a young man who promptly caught sight of her snoda and sneered, elbowing her out of the way.
A sharp knock to her ribs and again Alizeh doddered, though this time she caught herself, and hurried forward through the crowd.

She'd known, of course, even as she bade the prince farewell, that there was a chance she'd see him again at the ball that evening. She'd not felt it necessary to inform him of her attendance because she thought meeting him again a bad idea; and now that she knew the ball was in fact meant to facilitate his impending marriage—

No, she would not think of it.

It did not matter.
It could not matter.
In any case, their spheres had no hope of intersecting at such an event; she would not have cause to see him.

Alizeh did not know the full scope of Hazan's plan for her escape, but she doubted it'd have much to do with the festivities themselves, and the prince—for whom the ball had been arranged—would no doubt be expected to engage fully in its activities.

No, they would certainly not see each other again.

Alizeh felt a pang at that conclusiveness, a sharp pain she could not decipher; it was either longing or grief, or perhaps the two feelings were identical, split ends of the same sword.

Oh, what did it matter?

She sighed, sidestepping to avoid a trio of girls chasing each other through the crowd, and peered, halfheartedly, through the window against which she was pressed.

A row of children were sitting at a high counter, each devouring sandwiches of pomegranate ice cream, the blush-colored treat pressed between crisp disks of freshly
baked waffles. Their grown-ups stood by smiling and scolding, wiping the sticky mouths and tearstained cheeks of the children they could catch, the others tearing wildly about the shop, rummaging through crystal tubs brimming with fruit taffies and colorful marzipan, rock sugar and rose-petal nougat.

Alizeh heard their muted laughter through the glass.

She tightened her grip on her luggage then, tensing as her heart fractured in her chest. Alizeh, too, had once been a child, had once had parents who spoiled her thus. How good it was to be loved, she thought. How very important.

A curious little girl caught her eye then, and waved.

Tentatively, Alizeh waved back.

She was homeless. Jobless. All she owned in the world she carried in a single, worn carpet bag, the sum total of her coin scarcely two coppers altogether. She had nothing and no one to claim but herself, and it would have to be enough.

It would always have to be enough.

Even in her most desperate moments, Alizeh had found the courage to move forward by searching the depths of herself; she'd found hope in the sharpness of her mind, in the capacity of her own capable hands, in the endurance of her unrelenting spirit.

She would be broken by nothing.

She refused.

It was time, then, for her to find escape from the travails of her life. Hazan would help—but she first had to forge a path through her current predicament.

She needed to form a plan.

How might she source the necessary material and notions needed to make herself a gown? She would've had more coin to her name except that Miss Huda had yet to pay her an advance against the five gowns she'd requested; instead, the young woman was waiting first to see how Alizeh might transform the taffeta ahead of the ball tonight, which now lay crumpled inside her bag.

Alizeh sighed.

Two coppers were all she had, then, and they would afford her next to nothing from the cloth merchants.

She grimaced and pushed on, her mind working. An elderly man with a wispy beard and white turban shot past her on a bright-blue bicycle, coming to a terrifying halt not twenty feet away. She watched as he unfolded his narrow body from the seat, unpacked a sign from the basket of his transport, and hooked the wooden board onto the front of a nearby cart.

Teethmaker
, it read.

When he saw her staring, he beckoned her close, offering her a discount on a pair of third molars.

Alizeh almost smiled as she shook her head, staring at the scenes around her now with a touch of sadness. For months she'd lived in this royal city, and never before had she been able to see it like this, at its most dynamic, enchanting hour. Troubadours were parked at intervals with santoor and setar, filling the streets with music, flooding her heart with emotion. She smiled in earnest as cheerful pedestrians spared what moments they had to dance, to clap hands as they passed.

Her whole life seemed suddenly surreal to her, surreal because the sounds and scenes that surrounded her were so incongruously life-affirming.

With some effort, Alizeh fought back the maelstrom of emotion threatening to upend her mind and focused her thoughts instead on the many tasks ahead. With purposeful strides she passed the confectionary shop and the noisy coppersmith next door; she shot past a dusty rug emporium, colorful rolls stacked to the ceiling and spilling out of doorways, then a bakery and its open windows, the heavenly aroma of what she knew to be fresh bread filling her nose.

Suddenly, she slowed—her gaze lingering a moment on the large flour sacks by the door.

Alizeh could fashion a garment out of near anything, but even if she were able to source enough of a substandard textile, arriving at the ball in a burlap dress would only make her a small spectacle. If she wanted to disappear, she'd need to look like the others in attendance, which meant wearing nothing at all unusual.