“You said you would help me,” Soraya reminded her.
“And I will,” Parvaneh said. Impossibly, her eyes were even brighter than they had been before. “But I won’t be much help until my wings are restored.” She turned and lifted her shift again, her movements more fluid now that the smoke had cleared. Soraya took an involuntary step back. The idea of someone baring their skin for her was still unthinkable, and she looked from Parvaneh’s back to the feather in her hand as if she didn’t quite know how to bring them together.
After a lengthy pause, Parvaneh shot a pointed look over her shoulder at Soraya and said, “You’ll have to come closer.”
Her sardonic tone broke Soraya out of her trance, and she moved toward Parvaneh, observing the damage of her wings without touching her. She brushed the tip of the feather along the largest tear, and instantly, the wing stitched itself back together. But there were many tears—not just the long, clean ones, but also smaller, jagged ones that probably happened on their own. It was delicate work, and so neither of them spoke as Soraya continued to tend to Parvaneh’s wings, one tear at a time.
It was calming—the soft brush of feather against wings, the hushed sounds of their breathing, the feeling of putting something together. It reminded Soraya of working in her garden, pulling away vines and plucking away dead petals so that her roses could bloom and thrive. She wasn’t even aware of what she was doing when she first touched Parvaneh’s wing with her other hand, meaning to smooth out the surface so she could better attend to it. As soon as she realized what she had done, she drew back, but then her instinctive fear drained away, and she brushed her fingers against the wing again, thinking of that first butterfly from so long ago.
She continued her work, but her eyes kept drifting to the strip of bare skin between wings—to the matching patterns swirling like shadows on Parvaneh’s back, the soft down near the base of her neck, the curved ridge of her spine. It was almost like wanderlust; her fingertips yearned to explore new landscapes, new textures that they had never known before.
Only when she had finished repairing the last tear did Soraya allow herself to reach out with one faintly trembling hand and brush the pads of her fingers against Parvaneh’s skin, tracing one of the whorls on the inside of her shoulder blade where the wing was knitted into her back. Soraya was amazed at how soft Parvaneh’s skin was—softer than the petals of Soraya’s roses or the wool of her gloves. She let her fingers glide to the top of Parvaneh’s spine, and felt the strength of bone and muscle underneath the fragile layer of skin. She pressed down lightly, exploring the rise and dip of the ridges there, and she heard Parvaneh inhale sharply, her back arching.
Soraya pulled her hand away at once as if she’d been burned. She had forgotten herself—forgotten everything except her hunger for touch.
Parvaneh glanced over her shoulder at her, and Soraya tensed, expecting mockery. But Parvaneh’s expression was serious, and her voice soft—almost apologetic—as she asked, “Are you finished?”
“Yes,” Soraya said. “I think I repaired all of them.”
Parvaneh slowly opened her wings out to their full length, then closed and opened them again, and Soraya heard the barely restrained joy in her voice as she said, “Yes, you did.” Her wings collapsed, lying flat along her spine, and she put her shift back on. “Thank you,” she said, turning to Soraya. A hint of a smile played on her lips. “You have a gentle touch.” She headed for the stairway, leaving Soraya speechless behind her.
Once they ascended from the cavern, Parvaneh let Soraya lead the way through the dungeon. Soraya brought her to the secret entrance to the passageways, then paused to consider. She didn’t know if the Shahmar had noticed yet that she was missing, but if he had, he would likely be waiting for her to emerge from the passages—and he already knew about one of the doors. She wondered if it would be safer to use the regular entrance to the dungeon, but that, too, seemed too exposed, too risky. Better to take Parvaneh in through the passages and surface somewhere behind the palace—near the stables, if possible.
Soraya pulled open the door to the passageways, and told Parvaneh to follow.
She took them back to the circular cavern, though she ventured cautiously in case any divs were lying in wait. From there, they continued on down the central tunnel, Soraya heading toward the far western corner of the palace. There was a door there that would open onto a terrace that overlooked the training grounds. From there, they could run for the stables. Parvaneh’s presence behind her was an unexpected comfort—Soraya wasn’t alone now. She had someone powerful on her side, and soon the other pariks would join them. Her promise to her mother wasn’t bluster or desperation. It was possible. She could still undo what she had done.
As they neared the terrace, the passage became narrower, and Soraya had to duck her head. She was relieved when her hands met the low, square door at last. She pushed it open, letting in the crisp night air and the light from the stars, and began to crawl out through the opening in the palace wall onto the white stone of the terrace.
And then something sharp clamped around her arm and dragged her out the rest of the way.
The beaked div stood alone on the empty terrace, as if he had been expecting her. “The Shahmar said I would find you here,” he said. “He’s waiting for you.”
Soraya didn’t have time to wonder how the Shahmar had known where to find her. She needed to be ready to make her escape—because she noticed at once that the beaked div was alone, and she had Parvaneh with her.
Except that when she turned to look down the tunnel, Parvaneh was gone, and Soraya cursed herself for trusting yet another div.
The div led her into the palace, down halls that were now lined with other divs. She had expected him to take her back to the new wing, but instead, he went all the way down the hall to the entrance of the throne room.
The throne room was exactly as she had last seen it on Nog Roz—except that a different occupant lounged on the throne, his posture relaxed and arrogant. The beaked div brought her to the center of the room, where Sorush was standing rigidly on the image of the simorgh.
A ring of divs circled the room, and Soraya cursed silently as her eyes went to the door hidden in the right wall. One of the divs was positioned directly against it, blocking any escape. The Shahmar knows about the door, Soraya thought at once, but that was impossible, wasn’t it? She had never shown it to him, or even told him about it.
Following her gaze, the Shahmar said, “You’re looking for the door, aren’t you?” His voice rumbled with amusement. “I should have known better than to try to keep you prisoner here. You know these walls even better than I do. And I know them quite well myself—I built those passages that have hidden you away from me for so long, and so I knew which one you would likely take to escape. Don’t you find that poetic?”
A paranoid shah, Soraya remembered. Paranoid but clever, Azad had insisted. She was beginning to think there was no way to detangle her life from his, or his fate from hers.
The Shahmar continued: “I would have retrieved you soon anyway. I want you to be here when I kill your brother.”