“Surely you have other interests,” said Alizeh, who was growing vaguely concerned for the girl. “You must have friends—social obligations—”
Miss Huda dismissed this with a flick of her hand. “I often feel as if I live in a corridor; I’m neither genteel enough for nobility, nor common enough to mix with the baseborn. I’m a well fed, poorly dressed leper. My own sisters resist being seen with me in public.”
“That’s awful,” Alizeh said with feeling. “I’m truly sorry to hear it.”
“Are you really?” Miss Huda looked up. She studied Alizeh’s face a moment before she smiled. It was a real smile, something earnest. “How strange you are. How very glad I am for your strangeness.”
Surprised, Alizeh ventured a tentative smile back.
The girls were briefly silent after that, both assessing the fragile shoots of an unexpected friendship.
“Miss?” Alizeh said finally.
“Yes?”
“The package?”
“Right.” Miss Huda nodded and, without another word, retrieved from inside her wardrobe a pale yellow box. Alizeh recognized the details right away; it appeared to be a cousin of the box that housed her gown, a perfect match in color and ornamentation, but a quarter of the size.
“So—you’re not really a snoda, then?”
Alizeh looked up to meet the eyes of Miss Huda, who’d yet to relinquish the parcel.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re not really a servant,” she said. “You never were, I think. Your speech is too refined, you’re on the run for your life, and now you receive mysterious packages by way of strangers? You’re also rather beautiful, but in an old-fashioned way, as if from another time—”
“Old-fashioned?”
“—and your skin is too nice, yes, I see that now, and your hair too glossy. I’m quite certain you’ve never had scurvy, or even a touch of the plague, and by the looks of the rest of you I suspect you’ve never spent time in a poorhouse. And your eyes are so unusual—they keep changing color, you know—in fact, they’re so unusual it almost makes one think you might’ve worn the snoda on purpose, to hide your—
“Oh,” Miss Huda cried, her eyes shining now with excitement. “Oh, I’ve figured it out, I’ve figured it out. You only wore the snoda to protect your identity, didn’t you? Did you pretend to work at Baz House, too? Are you a spy? Are you employed by the crown?”
Alizeh opened her mouth to respond, and Miss Huda cut her off with a wave.
“Now, listen, I know you said you can’t say who you are. But if I guess correctly, will you tell me? You need only nod your head yes.”
“No.”
Miss Huda frowned. “That seems terribly unfair.”
Ignoring this, Alizeh snatched the parcel from Miss Huda’s hands and set the box on a nearby table. Without further delay, she lifted the lid.
Miss Huda gave a small cry of delight.
The box was neither empty nor teeming with goat brains; instead, nestled between delicate sheets of tissue-thin paper, were a pair of lavender boots the exact shade of the diaphanous gown. Elegantly crafted of silk jacquard, they had softly pointed toes and short, stacked heels, ribbon ties lacing all the way up the high vamp of the shoe. The boots were so beautiful Alizeh was afraid even to touch them.
Tucked beside one silk boot, was a card.
“Magic,” Miss Huda whispered. “That was magic, wasn’t it? Good heavens. Who the devil are you? And why did you let me order you around like you were a servant?” The young woman began pacing the room, flapping her hands as if they were on fire. “Oh, I’m experiencing quite the most painful wave of retroactive embarrassment; I hardly know what to do with myself.”
Alizeh paid this small drama no attention. Instead, she picked up the enclosed card, unfolding it with care. It was more of the same script.
When the path is unclear, these shoes will lead the way.
Alizeh was only just beginning to process the enormity of her own astonishment—the enormity of what it all might mean—when the words on the note suddenly disappeared.
She drew a sharp breath.
“What is it?” Miss Huda asked eagerly. “What does it say?”
Slowly, fresh words bloomed on the blank note before her: sharp, dark strokes as substantial as if they were written in real time, by an invisible hand.
Don’t be alarmed.
As if on cue, alarm shot through Alizeh with the force of an arrow, startling her backward, her mind reeling as she spun around, searching for something—for someone—