But Arwa had offered herself to service, body and soul. She had held out her palm and asked Zahir to make a tool of her. Her cheeks burned at the memory. Her insides knotted. Foolish. Foolish.
It was the shame that compelled her to keep on walking and make her way down the dark staircase into Zahir’s workroom. He was there as he always was, seated at his table with his studies laid out in front of him. He was making a clean duplicate of the book, the original placed to his left, the fresh copy to the right, where he could ink in line after line with neat strokes of his hand.
“Lord Zahir,” she said.
He lifted his head.
“Lady Arwa. I was not expecting you tonight.” He lowered his pen and rose to his feet. “I heard that Parviz had returned.”
Who had told him? Were there maidservants who swept his room and cleaned his clothes, who also imparted gossip? Did he ever emerge from this place to eat or sleep or simply experience life beyond the confines of the tomb enclosure’s walls? Did he have a place in Prince Akhtar’s household of men, as an impoverished relative, as Arwa and the other elders and widows did in the part of the household under Jihan’s purview?
None of it mattered. In truth, he should not have been here at all. He was a blessed. He should have been given a position as a military general serving under a governor, a commander of a garrison fort, even a governor of a far-flung province. He had the talent to be a scholar. He could have served as a scribe or in the imperial court. Anything but this strange half life, hidden away in darkness and secrecy.
The thought of his incongruity, his strangeness, only made her angrier.
“Princess Jihan spoke to me alone,” said Arwa. “She wanted to impress upon me the importance of making you happy. She asked me whether I would be willing to discard my reputation for the sake of service. To you.”
“Did she.” Zahir’s voice was carefully neutral.
“I believed I was serving you in order to save the Empire. That was what I offered. And, my lord, that is all I offer.”
He closed his eyes, head tilting back. Exhaled.
“I suppose I should be grateful,” Arwa said shakily. “I suppose I should want to make you happy, of my own volition. I am only a widow, after all. Only the illegitimate, Amrithi-blooded child of a nobleman in disgrace. What do I matter, compared to you?”
His eyes snapped open. He lowered his head.
“Lady Arwa,” he said. “No.”
His eyes were fixed on her hands now, which were fists before her. She uncurled them, and he raised his head, gazing at her veiled face.
“I want nothing from you,” he said. “I promise you.”
Liar.
She knew he was drawn to the movement of her hands, that something about her fascinated him. Perhaps he did not even know it. Lonely, Jihan had called him. But Arwa could only look at him and think of his vulnerable neck, his wrists, the moonlight on him and think, Starving, he is starving.
It only made her more furious to think it. She was starving too.
“So, then,” she said. “Is this what you want, freely offered, my lord?” She lifted her veil, her mother’s voice winter in her ears. Fool girl. Fool. “What do you think? Will I suit?”
He looked upon her face. Of course he did.
He had seen it before, in the realm of ash. But there she had not been flesh. She was flesh now, skin chilled by the air, her shorn hair curling faintly around her ears, lantern light flickering on her skin, just as it did on his.
Abruptly, he blinked. Sucked in a breath and looked away.
“Put your veil back in place. Please.”
She didn’t. She was in no mood to obey him.
“I am waiting for an answer, my lord.”
“You do not understand. I only seek an apprentice, Lady Arwa.”
“That was not what Jihan said.”
“My sister’s will is not my own,” he snapped. There was color in his face, creeping up his neck. “I am loyal to Jihan, I love her, but I also know what she is. Surely you recognize that she is not—as we are.”
“As we are, my lord?” She took a step closer to him, their shadows melding upon the floor. Her voice felt viperous in her own throat, sweet. “Please, explain that to me.”
“We know the necessity of being useful, do we not, Lady Arwa? We know the weight of it. The danger of not being what we must be.” He looked over her shoulder, at a fixed point in the distance; even the way he consciously avoided her face was like a brand upon her. “When my mother fell into the Emperor’s disfavor, Jihan was the one who begged for my life to be spared. She will say, perhaps, that I was saved for love or for pity. But I know her mother saw the use of me—I had the knowledge of such arts even then—and as a result I was spared and given a place in the imperial household. I had tutors. I was given a home and a purpose, by her grace and favor. But I do not forget that I live for my worth alone. And Jihan is…”
Zahir trailed off. Gestured helplessly. “She is clever in the ways of court. She knows the value of knowledge, and of power. She knows how to play the games the court play. She could have remained in her father’s court and cultivated his ear as Masuma does, but she chose to become the head of Akhtar’s household instead because she has a measure of freedom here that she would not have under Masuma’s thumb. She has the right, among other rights, to keep—me.” Zahir shook his head, a bitter and fleeting smile on his face. “She knows how to spin people to her whims, my sister. And she does so whenever she deems it necessary.”
“And she thinks she will gain some benefit from giving my honor to you?”
“She cannot give what you don’t offer.”
Arwa laughed harshly. She could not help it.
“Of course she can.”
“She cannot give what I won’t take, then,” snapped Zahir. “You came here of your own free will, Lady Arwa, came to this service out of loyalty and love for the Empire, and I am grateful. But I know how free will can bend to necessity and survival. I know. And I do not ask for more.”
There was silence. Arwa touched a hand to her own throat. She felt her pulse, a harsh rhythm beneath her fingertips. She breathed.
“Whatever Jihan may attempt,” he said finally, “whatever she may believe, I have told her and I tell you now: I called you my apprentice, my assistant, and that is all I want, and all I need from you.”
Need and want.
“She called you lonely,” said Arwa. “And I am…”
She trailed off. She would not tell him what she was. She could not even tell herself.
He raised his head as she lowered her veil. This slight man, with a disarmingly lovely face and cool, clever eyes. She looked at him through gauze and felt her stomach knot.
Starving, she thought again. Starving.
He looked at her as if he knew, as if he had always known what Jihan had hoped. There was pity in the turn of his mouth, but something sharp too.
“My sister’s will is not my will,” he said. “Now, Lady Arwa, I have work I need to do. You don’t need to stay.”
She went to Zahir the next night. She did not know what to expect from him. She prepared herself for barbed tension, for awkwardness, even to be banished away. But Zahir had placed new books on the table for her: slim, simple volumes of poetry and essays. He had placed cups of tea, poured fresh from the samovar, upon the table too.