You should be afraid, she thought again. But this time it was not a hopeless wish, the complaint of a girl who always gave in, but a realization, a truth she finally believed. It was also a threat. If he thought he could hurt her and boast about it to her face, if he wanted to test her limits, then he would have to face the consequences. In a way, she was relieved that all her formless frustration now had a name. A face. Something she could touch.
“But no matter how you found out,” Ramin continued, “you’re the last person I would allow to see the div, given what you are.”
Soraya lifted her head, baring the deadly skin of her throat. “And what am I, Ramin?” She stepped toward him, the space between them so small now that one of them would have to retreat.
But Ramin didn’t back away or even flinch, still unwilling to admit that she was more dangerous than he was. Soraya wondered what would happen if she reached up now and let her bare hand hover over his face—would he finally drop his stoic pose and surrender to her?
Her hand started to lift of its own accord, and a thought came unbidden to her mind: If Ramin dies, Sorush and Laleh would have to delay the wedding.
As quickly as the thought had come, another soon followed—a memory of Laleh’s face, an expression burned into Soraya’s mind since childhood. That same year she had first met Laleh, Soraya had convinced herself that the div had lied about her, or that the curse had worn off. She wanted to test her theory, and so one spring morning, she and Laleh had waited by the window until a butterfly landed on the sill, orange wings opening and closing. Soraya had reached out and gently brushed one fingertip along its black-edged wing. It was the first living creature she remembered touching. It was also the first living creature she remembered killing, its wings twitching once, twice, before stopping entirely.
But it wasn’t the butterfly she remembered most vividly. It was the look of devastation on Laleh’s face, her eyes watering, her lips pressed together as she tried not to cry. And Soraya understood that she had made Laleh sad by wanting something she couldn’t have.
Soraya backed away from Ramin, realizing what she had almost done—to him, to Laleh, to herself—and wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, a familiar gesture of surrender. Her hands were shaking—and she couldn’t help thinking that they were disappointed, cheated of their prize. But no, she didn’t want Ramin dead. She didn’t want to kill him or anyone else. She took no pride or satisfaction in her curse—she hated being dangerous, and hated the div that had made her this way. That was the only way she could be sure she was different from the monster in her dreams.
“Soraya?” Ramin moved toward her.
“Leave me alone,” Soraya snapped, careful to keep her voice low. You should be the one cowering away, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t speak in anger now. Anger needed a release. Soraya’s arms tightened around her waist, her shoulders hunching over. Anger and shame fought for control within her, and so she forced her body into the position of shame, because it was safer. “Never mind,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
With her head bowed, she couldn’t see his face, but she heard him give an irritated sigh. “You’re right about that. Besides, only the shah can decide who is permitted to see the div, so go back to your room and forget all about it.”
She ignored the flash of anger at his dismissal and turned away from him, hurrying back to the golestan, to the walls that stopped her from wanting what she could not have.
4
Soraya rose and dressed on the morning of Nog Roz, the first day of the new year, with a sense of purpose.
On a day like this, Soraya would normally take extra care not to leave her room. Today, the palace opened its gates to everyone, the palace gardens teeming with people from all parts of society—including the shah himself. Though he would spend a portion of the day in the audience hall accepting gifts and offerings, he was also free to celebrate among the crowd.
But all night long, Ramin’s parting words kept returning to her: Only the shah can decide who is permitted to see the div.
Catching the shah alone was difficult. He was often surrounded by guards, and more often accompanied by either the spahbed or Tahmineh. Even if Soraya tried to use the passageways to reach him, she would probably run into a guard first and have to explain why she was sneaking up on the most powerful and protected person in Atashar. But today was different. Sorush would still be well protected, but he would be out in the open and easier to reach. Plus, he would be in a good mood, and Nog Roz was a day for gift-giving, after all. Perhaps he would be moved to grant Soraya the only gift she had ever asked him for. Her mother had refused her, but Sorush outranked her, and so if he allowed Soraya to see the div, Tahmineh would have to agree.
Dressed in a finely made gown of green and gold brocade that she never had reason to wear, Soraya left her room through the golestan and made her way to the celebration in the garden, which was already full of people. Under the cypresses, children gathered around an old storyteller acting out the stories of brave heroes. She heard snatches of song from musicians and bards, singing both triumphant tales of legendary kings and sad ballads of tragic lovers. Directly in front of the palace were the four mud-brick pillars that were raised every year, one for each season. On top of the pillars were sprouting lentil seeds, meant to bring abundance for the year to come. Low tables were set up throughout the garden, holding golden bowls of fruit, candied almonds, and pastries, along with beehive-shaped bundles of pashmak—meant for decoration, but children kept sneaking handfuls of the sugary strands. Hyacinth and rosewater mingled in the air, creating the scent of spring.
Soraya had only ever seen this celebration from above, or heard it from afar. Being in the midst of all this color and light made her believe for once that the year was changing for her, too, the promise of spring’s renewal fulfilled at last. She would have liked to have taken some almonds, but there were too many people gathered around the tables. Instead, she found a safe place under the magenta-blossomed branches of an arghavan tree where she observed the festivities from a distance.
She had thought the crowds would be difficult—and true, she did have to be especially careful of every movement, every step—but now she realized that only in such a vast and varied crowd could she hide without hiding. No one looked at her, no one glanced down at her gloves or asked her who she was, and yet she felt freer and more visible than she ever had before.
She might have forgotten her purpose entirely while standing under the trees, but an hour or so later, she heard a boisterous cheer roaring over the rest of the noise, and Soraya turned to its source. Sorush was passing through the crowd, a group of soldiers raising their goblets to toast him in his wake. He was dressed as one of them, in a red tunic that suited his black hair and bronze complexion, rather than in the more cumbersome robes of a shah. In the days before their father’s death, they had celebrated Nog Roz together, along with Laleh. Sorush would steal pastries for them, and he and Laleh would bring them to Soraya’s room to share.
Soraya peeled away from the shade of her tree and began to follow Sorush. She had to move slowly through the crowd, careful not to come too close to anyone, so she lost sight of Sorush in the line of cypresses that separated the four quarters of the garden. Still, Soraya kept winding her careful path forward, feeling a little like a serpent, unable to move in a straight line.