Aladdin raises a tentative hand to my cheek. Immobile with both dread and longing, I can only stare up at him, flushing with warmth when he gently runs his hand down the side of my face. I shut my eyes, leaning into his touch just slightly, my stomach leaping. Longing. Wishing.
I feel him leaning closer, bending down, his face drawing nearer to mine.
“No,” I whisper. “I can’t.”
“Zahra—”
I pull away, averting my gaze. “You are ready for her.”
With that, I turn and run back into the palace.
Chapter Fifteen
IT IS A CUSTOM of Fahradan that for the evening, the lines between the classes are temporarily erased, and a servant may dance with a prince, and a cook may break bread with a king. And so when Aladdin enters the great throne room of King Malek, I am standing at his side, equal for this night. I wear my conjured gown of red and gold silk, a ruby perched on my brow.
I still feel Aladdin’s touch burning on my cheek, the weight of him leaning toward me. My skin courses with rippling heat, and never have I felt so out of control of my own form. I cannot shift away the tingles in my stomach or the image of his eyes locking on mine as we spun around one another.
It was a fluke, an accident, I tell myself. It won’t happen again. Still, I feel every inch of space between us as we walk, and I wonder if he feels it too. I don’t dare glance at him to find out, because I fear meeting his eyes and seeing the truth in them—that what happened wasn’t an accident.
That it might be real.
And worse, that I might want it to happen again.
This isn’t what I came here for, I remind myself. I need to focus, need to find Zhian, need to do it fast. I have two more days before I lose my chance at freedom and Nardukha unleashes his fury on Parthenia. This isn’t just about me anymore. This is about the people dancing around me, unwitting of the destruction waiting to fall on them. This is about saving Aladdin. And what I felt in our rooms minutes ago—that cannot happen again.
There is far too much to lose.
Our entrance is not grand—we slip in with the crowd, and with everyone dressed in red and gold, it’s easy to blend in. But Aladdin begins to gather looks of appreciation and of envy, of desire and of open hostility—this last from the various men whose female companions cast admiring looks my master’s way. And Aladdin does cut a breathtaking figure, moving through the crowd with the grace and carriage of a born prince. Where did he learn that? Where did he learn to hold his head so high, to carry his shoulders so squarely, to look every person he passes in the eye and to give them a small, knowing smile as if they are old friends? He has a bearing to him that no degree of my magic could impart, some deep inner strength that is entirely of his own making. Watching him makes me ache inside.
“They’re staring at me,” he whispers. “Gods, Zahra, is this thing on backward or something?” He tugs at his coat.
“Stop it,” I hiss, swatting his hand. “You look fine. You look . . . damn princely.”
He smiles brightly, and the pleasure in his eyes is too bright to bear. I look away, scanning the room for familiar faces. Though the custom is that servants may mingle freely with their lords, it is easy to see that most of the people here are nobility. The servants must be having their own Fahradan in some other part of the palace. But not all—a few unlucky ones wind through the crowd, bearing flagons of wine or trays of pastries.
The empty throne is cordoned off with silk rope, awaiting the king. A temporary dais has been set up against one wall, and on it a group of musicians play a lilting, fast-paced tune to which a few couples are already dancing wrist to wrist, as I taught Aladdin. Braziers twice as high as a man and propped up by massive tripods cast light that reaches even the tops of the mighty domes overhead. I don’t see the pigeons that had populated the ceiling the day we met the king, and I wonder what poor fool’s job it was to clear them out. Here and there, the crowd opens to give space for fire-breathers, acrobats, snake charmers, and sword swallowers.
“I don’t see her,” says Aladdin. “Is she coming? What if she—”
“Sh. Look.”
At the far end of the throne room, atop a high double stair carved with winged men and horses, is a tall door of rich teak. It opens slowly, drawn by four servants, to reveal Caspida and her girls, who float into the hall. The princess wears a gown of pure, pale gold lined with crimson. Her hair, bound up in an elaborate swirl, is encased in a fine net of delicate gold chains, each dripping with tiny diamonds. Her hair is the night speckled with stars, but none brighter than her eyes, which sweep across the room. Across the backs of her hands, delicate red patterns worked in henna swirl and curl like smoke.
The court lets out an appreciative sigh, pausing to bow toward her. She descends the stair smoothly, her girls flanking her. Above them, Darian appears in the doorway, dressed in a tight red coat, topped with a gold turban. He waves regally before descending, his head high and his lips peeled back in a smile.
I lean over and nudge a poleaxed Aladdin, whose eyes are trained on the princess. “Hurry. Go ask her to dance before anyone else does!”
He nods dazedly and steps forward. I release a short breath, forcing myself to let him go alone. He is on his own now, and I can only hope he won’t make an utter fool of himself. Now if I can make my way to an exit, I can get back to searching for Zhian. The seconds slip away faster than ever, and my stomach twists with worry.
I turn around and nearly smack into a skinny noble with a thin mustache and bad breath.
“Will you dance with me, lady?” he asks. Then, leaning in, he whispers, “You can’t say no! Not tonight.”
I am trapped between him and one of the tall pillars, and I wince as his breath assaults me. He grabs my wrist tightly and tries to pull me toward the dance floor, when suddenly a hand closes on his arm and wrenches it away.
“The lady already promised me the next round,” says a voice.
I turn to see who has come thinking to rescue me—and freeze.
Darian’s smile is small and tight. He bows, but the gesture is mocking, his eyes brazenly studying my form through the gown.
“We haven’t met,” he says. “I am Prince Darian.”
The skinny man mumbles an apology and disappears. I start to turn away, but Darian smoothly steps in front of me, putting his wrist to mine and turning me into the dance. The crowd around us parts, giving us space to turn. I flush with annoyance. The gods are conspiring against me tonight.
“Your Highness, I am—”
“I know who you are,” says Darian. “You’re Zahra, Rahzad’s girl.” He turns sharply, and I mirror him, watching him from the corner of my eye.
“You’re very bold for a prince,” I tell him, whirling and meeting his wrist.