As the procession moved through the palace gates and into Golvahar’s vast garden, Soraya could see faces more clearly. With a grimace, she noticed Ramin in the red uniform of the azatan. He wore it proudly, with his head held high, knowing that as the spahbed’s only son and likely successor, he had been born to wear red.
Her eyes gladly shifted away from Ramin to a figure riding a few horses behind him. He was a young man near the same age, his features indistinct from so far away, dressed not like a soldier in red and gold, but like a commoner, in a brown tunic without adornment. Soraya might not have noticed him at all except for one thing—
He was looking directly at her.
Despite the pomp of the procession, the lush beauty of the garden, and the grandeur of the palace ahead of him, the young man had looked up and noticed a single, shadowy figure watching from the roof.
Soraya was frozen, too surprised to duck away. That was what her instincts were telling her to do—hide, disappear, don’t let anyone see you—but another instinct, one that she’d thought she’d buried long ago, kept her in place as she locked eyes with the young man, as she let herself see and be seen. And before she shrank away from the roof’s edge and disappeared from sight, she silently issued two commands to this young man who saw what he wasn’t supposed to see.
The first was a warning: Look away.
But the second was a challenge.
Come find me.
* * *
A beetle was crawling on the grass near where Soraya was kneeling. The sight of it froze her in place, her bare hands hovering in the air until it crawled a safe distance away from her. She shuffled a little in the opposite direction and went back to her work.
After watching the procession, Soraya had come to the golestan, needing something to occupy her thoughts and her hands. The walled rose garden was her mother’s gift to her, along with teaching her to read. After Soraya had discovered as a child that she could touch flowers and other plant life without spreading her poison to them, her mother began to bring her a potted rose, as well as a book, when she visited each spring. As the years passed, Soraya’s collections grew, and her garden was now teeming with roses—pink roses, red damask roses, white and yellow and purple roses, growing in bushes and climbing up the mud-brick walls, their scent as sweet as honey.
Like the much larger palace garden, the golestan was separated into quarters by tiled pathways that met in the center at an octagonal pool. Unlike the palace garden, there were only two entrances to the golestan—a door in the wall to which only Soraya had the key, and a set of latticed doors that opened from Soraya’s room. The golestan belonged to her and her alone, and so it was the one place she didn’t need to fear touching anyone or anything—except for the unknowing insects that found their way inside.
Soraya was still eyeing the retreating beetle when she heard the sound of stately footsteps coming from her room. She quickly stood and brushed the dirt off her dress, then put on her gloves, which she had tucked into her sash.
“Hello, Soraya joon,” her mother said as she came to stand in the open doorway. Tall and regal, draped in silks, her hair glittering with jewels, Soraya’s mother always seemed more than human. When the late shah had died seven years ago from his illness, Sorush and Soraya had been only eleven, and so it was Tahmineh who had become the regent, ruling in her son’s stead until he was old enough to rule. And yet, with all that responsibility, she had never forgotten to bring Soraya the treasured gifts that lightened her daughter’s burden. Even now, Tahmineh was holding a book under one arm and a clay pot in her hands.
With her gloves safely on, Soraya came forward to accept her mother’s gifts, stopping a few steps away from her. “Thank you, Maman,” she said, gently taking the potted rose. There was only a hint of green within the packed soil, just as Soraya preferred. She liked to see the roses bloom for the first time in her garden, by her hand. It was proof that she could nurture as well as destroy.
“I hope your journey wasn’t too tiring,” Soraya called over her shoulder as she found a temporary home for the potted rose until she could plant it. She hadn’t had a conversation with anyone in so long that words felt clumsy on her tongue. Their greetings were always stiff and formal, since neither of them could embrace the other, but Soraya had seen the warmth in her mother’s eyes, in the crinkle of her smile, and she hoped her own face showed the same.
“Not at all,” Tahmineh answered. “Here,” she said, holding the book out. “Stories from Hellea,” she said, “since I think you already know every Atashari story that’s ever been told by now.”
Soraya took the book and leafed through the illustrated pages as her mother started to walk along the edge of the golestan. “These are beautiful,” Tahmineh murmured to the climbing roses on the wall, and Soraya silently beamed with pride. She could never shine as brightly as her brother did, but she could still make her mother smile.
“There were more people in the procession today than usual,” Soraya said, her tongue starting to loosen. “Are they all coming for Nog Roz?”
Tahmineh froze, her back so straight and still that she resembled a statue. “Not only for Nog Roz,” she said at last. “Let’s go inside, Soraya joonam. I have something to tell you.”
Soraya swallowed, her fingertips cold even inside her gloves. She moved aside from the doors for her mother to enter first and then followed, still clutching the book in her hands.
She had nothing to offer her mother, no wine or fruit or anything else. Servants brought food to Soraya’s room three times a day, leaving a tray behind the door for her. People knew the shah had a reclusive sister, and perhaps they all had their own theories as to why she hid away, but none of them knew the truth, and it was Soraya’s duty to keep it that way.
The room was certainly comfortable, however. There were cushions everywhere—on the bed, on the chair, on the window seat, some on the floor—all with different textures, made from different fabrics. Overlapping rugs spread out across the entire floor, their vibrant colors a little worn from time. Every surface was covered with something soft, as though she could somehow make up for the lack of touch by surrounding herself with these artificial substitutes. Throughout the room were glass vases holding wilting roses from her garden, filling the room with the earthy smell of dying flowers.
There was only one chair in the room, and so Tahmineh sat on one end of the window seat. Soraya placed herself carefully at the other end, her hands folded in her lap, her knees held together, taking up as little room as possible so that her mother would feel comfortable.
But her mother looked anything but comfortable. She was avoiding Soraya’s eyes, her hands fidgeting in her lap. Finally, she took a breath, looked up, and said, “The reason we have so many visitors is that your brother is going to be married next month.”
“Oh,” Soraya said with some surprise. From her mother’s demeanor, she had expected to hear about a funeral rather than a wedding. She had known Sorush would likely marry sooner or later. Did her mother think she would be jealous?
“The bride is Laleh,” her mother added.
“Oh,” Soraya said again, her tone flat this time. It made sense, she told herself. Laleh was the spahbed’s daughter, as kindhearted as she was beautiful. She deserved to become the most loved and influential woman in Atashar. Anyone would—should—be happy for her.