He’d gone to warn her.
He’d gone to tell her to run, to pack her bags and flee, to find a safe place to hide and remain there, possibly forever. And yet, when he saw her face, he realized that he could not simply ask her to run; no, she was an intelligent girl, she would have questions. If he told her to flee, she would want to know why. And what reason would she have to trust him?
He’d hardly begun to process this when she’d all but dismissed him.
It was possible she’d not known who he was—she’d called him sir, at one point—but he suspected that even if she’d known she were speaking to a prince she’d have treated him the same.
In any case, it did not seem to matter.
Kamran had known his grandfather’s position on the girl; going against the king would’ve been an act of treason. Had Kamran been found out, his head would’ve been removed from his body in short order. It was some small miracle, then, that he’d lost his nerve.
Or perhaps regained his good sense.
He did not know this girl. He did not understand why the thought of killing her left him feeling ill. He only knew that he had to at least try to find another way—for surely she, a humble servant, was not the demon-like creature with an abundance of formidable allies prophesied all those years ago.
No, most assuredly not.
Kamran finished dressing himself without the assistance of his still-sleeping valet, and then—to the shock and horror of the palace servants—stole belowstairs to filch a cup of tea from the kitchens on his way out.
He needed to speak with his grandfather.
Kamran had lived at the royal palace his whole life and yet he never tired of its resplendent views, its acres of manicured gardens, its endless pomegranate groves. The grounds were of course always magnificent, but the prince never loved them more than he did at sunrise, when the world was still quiet. He stopped where he stood then, lifting the still-steaming cup to his lips.
He was standing in the illusion of a glittering infinity; the single mile of ground beneath his feet was in fact a shallow pool three inches deep. A sudden wind nudged water against his boots, the soothing sounds of gentle waves a welcome balm for his tired mind.
Kamran took another drink of his tea.
He was staring up at the soaring, open-air archways, their tens of dozens of exquisite columns planted into the shallow depths around him. The smooth white stonework of the structures was inlaid with vibrant jewels and vivid tiles, all of which benefited now from the blossom of a waking sun. Fiery light refracted against the bezel-set gems, fracturing endless prismatic colors along the sleeping grounds. More golden rays shattered through the open arches, gilding the water beneath his feet so that it looked almost like liquid bullion.
The beauty of Kamran’s life was often lost on him, but not always. There was some mercy in that.
He finished the last of his tea and hooked a finger through its glass handle, letting the cup swing as he strode onward. With the rise of the sun came the stir of servants; snodas were popping up all around him, bustling past with vessels and trays.
Baskets of pomegranates were balanced precariously on heads, under arms. There were silver trays heaving with baklava and delicate honey grapes, others stacked high with fresh barbari bread, each oblong sheet the length of a setar. And flowers—manifold bouquets of flowers—tens of servants rushing by carrying armloads of the fragrant stems. There were copper bowls filled with glossy green tea leaves; basil and mint and tarragon piled high on gold platters. Another endless procession of snodas carried rice—innumerable, incalculable sacks of rice.
Sudden foreboding caught Kamran by the throat; he went unearthly still.
Then he spun around.
There was more; there were more. More servants, more trays, more baskets and tureens and bushels and platters. Wheels of feta cheese were shuttled past; trolleys overstuffed with fresh chestnuts. There were stockpiles of vivid-green pistachios and salvers laden with saffron and tangerines. There were towers of peaches; an abundance of plums. Three servants shuffled past with a tremendous dripping honeycomb, the mass of sticky beeswax spanning the width of an oversized door.
Every second seemed to bring more.
More crates, more hampers, more sacks and wheelbarrows. Dozens and dozens of servants rushing to and fro.
It was madness.
While it was true that there was often a great deal happening at the palace, this level of activity was unusual. To see the servants getting started so early—and with so much to occupy their arms—
Kamran drew a sharp breath.
The teacup slipped from his finger, shattering as it hit the ground.