Arwa sat in the Hall of the World, her sleepless mind full of ash and poetry, as the Emperor announced edicts and dispensed justice, as the court scribes inked his words, as Akhtar offered his input on imperial administration, as Princess Masuma whispered through the lattice, speaking for the women of his household. When the Emperor once again announced Prince Parviz’s imminent return, declaring that his son would be greeted that evening with appropriate pomp and ceremony, a whispered message passed from Masuma’s retinue through the women: the feast in his honor would also be tonight. Although most women murmured in pleasure, at least one of Jihan’s confidantes was not happy about the lack of notice.
“She wants to make our lady look foolish. Oh, you know what she’s like—”
“Hush before one of her favorites hears you,” another hissed.
Arwa blamed the high spirits of the women around her and her own exhaustion, but it was only when the audience ended and they returned to their own household that Arwa’s addled mind realized that she had not seen Gulshera all morning.
In fact she had barely seen Gulshera at all since the first audience. Gulshera rarely ate with the other charity women of the princess’s household. She did not join them when they spent the mornings and afternoons embroidering or writing letters, or discussing news from the larger Empire. She had seen Gulshera only briefly, once or twice, walking at the princess’s side, among her circle of close companions.
Arwa went to the fruit garden and sat in the shade, arms curled about her knees. As the other widows and elders entered their shared hall, gossiping, removing their veils, she closed her eyes and sought some brief ease from her tiredness and her own thoughts.
She did not want to miss Gulshera, or require her counsel, but here she was regardless, mulling over the imperial household, wishing for Gulshera’s blunt, even-handed guidance.
The princess informed me I should not question or interfere. So I will not. That was what Gulshera had told her. Did that extend to all aspects of Arwa’s role in this household? Was Gulshera required to leave Arwa be, or did she simply have a much grander purpose, as one of Jihan’s favorites?
“Lady Arwa,” said a voice. It was not Gulshera, but another widow, still veiled. Arwa recognized her by the rings upon her hands, each embellished with rough-cut blue gems. An unseemly display for a widow, but Lady Bega was cousin to the departed Empress, distantly imperial by ancient blessed blood, and no one dared treat her with anything but respect.
“Lady Bega,” Arwa said deferentially, rising to her feet.
Bega drew back her own veil, wrinkled eyes focused on Arwa’s face. Considering.
“You are too young by far,” she said, shaking her head mildly. “Wear your veil tonight, at the feast. Trust an old woman’s advice. The princes are good men, young one, but they are still men. You understand?”
“We are dining with the princes?” Arwa said, feeling herself become pale. She had expected a celebration—something to honor the prince appropriately—but she had not expected to see him face-to-face, or any of them. The worlds of women and men who were not kin, not bound by blood or marriage, were not meant to cross. That was the way of any noble household. “Aunt, my honor—”
“Ah, ah!” Bega tutted. “My dear, there’s no shame in it. This is the imperial household. You think the Emperor’s kin obey the same rules as the rest of us?”
“I—”
“You’re a woman of the household, aren’t you? No different from any widowed aunt in her brother’s or her nephew’s care. Regardless, do be careful. We know there is no difference between you and I, age or no age… But men, even the very finest of them, they are… easily misled by a young and pretty face.” She tapped Arwa’s cheek lightly.
Her touch made Arwa look toward the other widows, seated around their fountain. They were watching her and Bega both. Had the widows been discussing who would speak with her, this painfully young and tragic widow thrust into their lives? Arwa swallowed and bowed her head deferentially. She knew a warning when she heard one.
“Thank you, Aunt,” Arwa said. “I appreciate your wisdom.”
Arwa wore her veil.
Jihan led the retinue as always, with Gulshera once again at her side, where Arwa had no opportunity to speak with her.
They crossed the great bridges of the silver lake to the imperial palace proper once more, but this time they did not go to the Hall of the World. Instead they entered the women’s quarters of the Emperor’s own great palace. Arwa stared about, wide-eyed. Arwa had near laughed, when Jihan had called her household humble. But she had not been lying. In comparison to the central women’s quarters, they were. The ceilings were gold, the walls mirrored with gems and silver alike.
They were led to a grand hall. Musicians were playing in the corner of the room. A courtesan was dancing, dressed in a long skirt of deep blue and imperial green. Large tables, arranged to reflect the importance of their occupants, were set around the room to hold lesser members of each imperial household.
The table of the imperial family was unmistakable. At the center of the room, small but wrought of ivory carved to resembled roses, it was surrounded by a corona of cushions of brocade and velvet where the family’s closest companions knelt in attendance. At the table itself, an older woman with henna-red hair drawn back beneath a high coned cap was already seated. Princess Masuma, surely. Next to her sat the boy Prince Nasir. He was smiling, chattering volubly to his aunt beside him.
On the other side of the table, expression set and grim, sat Prince Akhtar. He turned as Jihan and her women entered. His expression thawed a little at the sight of her. He quirked an eyebrow, still unsmiling.
“Have you come to save me from this farce?” he asked.
“Of course not.” She glided forward and performed a graceful bow to her brothers and her aunt. Then she rose. “I see you began without me. A shame. I do so love our family gatherings.”
“I told Akhtar he should ask you to hurry,” said Nasir, practically squirming in his seat. He had a great deal of energy, this one, when propriety did not force him to be still. “Parviz will be here soon.”
“And I told Akhtar not to rush you,” Masuma said, smiling sweetly. Her eyes were flat. “I know how young girls are.”
“Thank you, Aunt,” Jihan said, with equal poison. “How kind.”
“This is a celebration for your brother, Jihan,” Masuma said. “Do try to sound less—difficult.”
“I will do my best, Aunt.”
“What does it matter? He won’t appreciate it,” Akhtar said to Masuma, drumming his fingers idly against the table. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Aunt; he may be your favorite, but you know him. He’ll make sour faces and revile you for wasting your coin on frivolity. He doesn’t understand the value of making people happy.”
Masuma’s lips thinned.
“Sit, Jihan,” she said sharply. “Let your retinue go and enjoy themselves.”
She spoke to Jihan as if she were a child, and Jihan kneeled at the table with a sweep of her skirt and a tilt of her chin that was all defiance. Her smile was sharp enough to cut, and Masuma’s expression soured all the more at the sight of it.