“That’s sure to charm the princess right into a wedding pact.”
Grinning mischievously, he crosses to me and takes my hands, trying to draw me onto the open floor. “You can teach me how to dance.”
“No.” I wrench my hands away and turn my back to him.
“I thought the whole point of Fahradan was that everyone has to dance.”
“Wish for it, and I could make you such a dancer you would charm the fish out of the sea.”
“Zahra. Are you angry with me?” He walks around to face me. “Is this because I beat you at dice the other day?” His eyes going wide, he drops to his knees in front of me. “I apologize from the bottom of my soul, O great and powerful jinni of the lamp.”
“You didn’t beat me. I let you win.”
“Zahra.” Aladdin shuffles closer and takes my hands. “I need your help.”
With a soft groan, I pull my hands from his and throw them in the air. “Fine! Just stop groveling! You’re supposed to be a prince, you idiot. Anyway, you’ll get your fancy clothes dirty.”
His face blossoming with delight, he lifts me by my waist and spins me around before I have a chance to dodge him.
“Put me down!” I shift, and his hands close around white smoke. I reappear behind him, barefoot on the smooth tiled courtyard, dressed in a Fahradan gown of red and gold to match Aladdin’s coat, a turquoise comb set in my hair that drops a tear-shaped ruby over the center of my forehead.
Aladdin turns and stops dead with a soft “Oh.” His eyes scan me from head to toe, his mouth slightly ajar.
I wave a hand. “Come here.”
He hurries to me, stopping a pace away. The lamps that hang from the pillars around us cast delicate patterns of light across the white walls and floor, painting glitter like trapped stars. But for the clicking song of a nightjar in the trees behind us and babble of the wall fountain, all is silent.
“The dance of Fahradan,” I begin, “is a dance of paradoxes. It is restraint versus passion. It is desire versus purity. It is push versus pull.”
I lift my arms, which are bare of jewelry. “This dance is born in the wrists. They are the points upon which the rest of the body hangs.”
Demonstrating, I begin rotating my hands, shifting foot to foot, my hips swaying to unheard music. My gown whispers against the tile, my bare feet lifting only at the heel.
“It is one of the few dances shared by a man and a woman,” I go on. “Step closer.”
He does, swallowing, and he holds up his wrists at shoulder height. Without pausing, I step to him and press the inside of my left wrist lightly against his right.
“Nothing touches,” I whisper in his ear, “except the wrists.”
I can feel his pulse beating through the delicate skin of his wrist, warm and strong and vibrant. The power of his energy pours through me like a rush of wind.
“When you dance with the princess, you must resist her and at the same time let her entice you. You are stone, and she is water. You are the earth, and she is the sky.” With a swift spin, I reverse directions, locking my other wrist to his. “See? Push and pull. Restraint and passion.”
He nods and licks his lips, his eyes locked with mine.
“Now,” I say, “when I step forward, you step back. When I turn to the left, you go right. We are mirrors of one another, do you see? But always we come back, wrist to wrist. Imagine an invisible ribbon tying us together, always bringing us back to where we began. This dance, like time, is a circle.”
He begins to dance with me, mirroring my movements, until we are circling one another, turning, twirling, and always returning to the starting position, opposite wrists pressed together, vein to vein, pulse to pulse.
“The woman leads, and the man resists. The woman invites, and the man follows. Your part is easy—let Caspida lead. Mirror her movements, and you will fall into synthesis. Your bodies will read each other’s heartbeats through the wrists, and your pulses will become one rhythm.”
“I think I understand,” he says hoarsely.
“Then prove it.”
I twirl away, then back to him, staying on my toes, my hips always lightly rotating. He reacts clumsily at first, but soon the awkwardness fades away and he begins matching my movements, reflecting them in reverse. We dance like this, wrist to wrist, twirl and turn, step for step, for several more minutes. He holds my gaze, our eyes connecting at every turn, anticipating one another’s movements.
His pulse is so strong against my wrist that it echoes through me, almost like a heartbeat of my own. My skin warms; my breath catches in my throat. I know how closely I dance along the line of destruction, but I cannot pull myself away. He is intoxicating, his force of life an addiction I cannot refuse. I have not felt this alive in centuries, not since you, Habiba, when you taught me the dance of Fahradan. Ours was a dance of giddy laughter, a dance of friends, sisters, a dance of life and youth and hope.
But this dance is different.
It is not I but he who entices, reversing the ancient roles of the dance. And I resist because I must, because if I don’t, because if I give in to the all-too-human desires racing through me—then it is Aladdin who will pay the terrible price.
“Stop.” I drop my wrists and step away, and he does the same, still caught up in mirroring me. Except that he is breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with exertion, his eyes filled with a strange, wondrous, curious look as he stares at me. He moves closer, his eyes fixed on mine, and despite myself I cannot look away.
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. An
d 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.
“You’re very pretty for a serving girl.”
I spot Aladdin then, not far away, settling into a dance with Caspida. He’s babbling at her, smiling too widely, and she’s more interested in watching Darian and me. Our gazes cross, and in her eyes is burning curiosity, but then we both turn away.
“What’s your master’s game, then?” Darian asks in a low tone.
We circle one another, wrists pressed together, his pulse racing with anger. He has seen Aladdin and Caspida dancing, and rage burns beneath his cool exterior.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord. I am just a servant.”
“Liar. You’re more than that. Caspida’s taken an interest in you, and you meet my eye without looking down. Frankly I don’t care who or what you really are—what I want to know is where your master gets off thinking he can cross me.”
I suppress a wince. I always was bad at passing myself off as a servant. Too impressed with yourself for your own good is what you often said, Habiba.
“How could he possibly threaten you?” I ask Darian.
“He doesn’t. He annoys me.”
“It’s a particular habit of his.” The music quickens and our steps match it, until we are whirling and turning at a dizzying speed.
Darian ceases talking to concentrate on the dance, but when the music slows again he says, “Caspida and I have been betrothed since birth. She loves me.”
“How could she not?” I drift closer to him, my skirts brushing his legs as we circle one another, then switch wrists. “You’re handsome and powerful. You’re what every little princess dreams of.”
His hand traces my waist and hip, hovering but not touching. “And what do little serving girls dream of?” he whispers.
With a smile I spin away from him, arms held in front of me, giving my skirts room to flare as I twirl. Then, before he can catch me, I slip into the crowd and leave him standing alone.
Caspida and Aladdin are still dancing, their steps stiff and formal, and Aladdin’s attempts to get her to laugh seem to be in vain. When he spies me watching, his eyebrows raise in a plea for help. I shrug and smile. Wish for it, thief, and I could make her beg for your love.
The diamonds in her hair reflect tiny pinpoints of light across his face, making him look bewitched. They are a beautiful pair, like lovers out of a story, brought together by destiny. I sigh and start to move away, but a voice stops me.
“You look like you swallowed a lemon.”
I turn to see Nessa at my side. She’s dressed in a two-piece gown of crimson that exposes her muscular stomach and the small gold ring piercing her navel. Her dreadlocks are worked into a braided knot on top of her head, their silver tips fanning out like a crown. I prickle with wariness at the sight of her, but she doesn’t seem to have brought her flute. A book of bound parchment is tucked under her arm.
Noticing my stare, she laughs and taps the book. “I always get bored at these things. So I brought a friend.” Drawing it out, she flips through the pages. “A history of the greatest queens of the eastern sea kingdoms, going all the way back to the Shepherdess Queen of Ghedda, who offered herself as sacrifice to save her city from sinking into the sea.”
My skin prickles, and I turn and look at her fully, my eagerness to find Zhian temporarily forgotten. “An ancient story,” I say slowly. “Few people know it.”
“I know a lot of old stories most people forget,” she says, running her finger
down the spine. “And the Parthenian library is a marvel. One could spend a lifetime exploring it and never even count all the scrolls and books tucked away in there.”
“May I ask, Highness, how a Tytoshi princess finds herself in an Amulen court?”
“I suppose you may, since it’s Fahradan, after all.” She looks across the crowd, her eyes briefly lingering on Aladdin and Caspida. “When a Tytoshi king dies, his successor often cleanses the royal household, murdering his siblings and their children in order to protect his throne—and not without reason. Few Tytoshi rulers die of natural deaths, you know.” She turns back to me, her tone matter-of-fact. “When my grandfather died, my eldest uncle became king. Instead of letting my brother Vigo and me be strangled in our sleep, our mother smuggled us here. We were only babies at the time.”
“And was it your mother who taught you the art of jinn charming?”
The only indication Nessa gives of her alarm at this question is a slight flaring of her nostrils. “I beg your pardon?”
“Forgive me. I noticed your flute the other day. It is carved with Eskarr symbols—not an instrument for idle melodies.”
She studies me for a long moment, her jaw tensing, before replying shortly, “My twin and I earn our keep.” She nods at Aladdin and Caspida. “Your prince and my princess are stirring up quite the gossip.”
I glance around at the watching nobles, who all have eyes for Caspida and her companion. They whisper behind their spiced wine, and not all their expressions are benevolent.
“I’d tell your master to watch out,” Nessa continues. “Darian’s probably in some corner plotting murder.” She looks away, her face impassive, and I sigh. I’m likely to get no help from her in finding Zhian. The crowd presses in on me, until it seems I can hardly breathe. I must get out, must continue searching. I’ve wasted too much time already.