“Oh, my dear”—his aunt hesitated, consternation knitting her brow—“I’m afraid we must forgo luncheon today. Your minister has come to fetch you.”
Kamran turned sharply to face her. “Hazan is here?”
“I’m afraid so.” She looked away. “He’s been waiting some time now, and I daresay he’s not altogether pleased about it. He says your presence is required back at the palace? Something to do with the ball, I imagine.”
“Ah.” Kamran gave a nod. “Indeed.”
A lie.
If Hazan had come for him personally—had not trusted a messenger to inspire his hasty return—then something was very wrong.
“A shame,” his aunt said, forcing cheerfulness, “that your visit was so brief.”
“Please accept my sincerest apologies,” Kamran said, lowering his eyes. “I feel I have been nothing but distracted and disappointing to you this day.” They came to a stop in the front hall. “Would you allow me to make up for this lost visit with another?”
She brightened at that. “That sounds just fine, my dear. You know you are welcome here anytime. You need only name the day.”
Kamran took his aunt’s hand and kissed it, bowing at the waist before her. When he met her eyes again, she’d gone pink in the face.
“Until next time, then.”
“Your Highness.”
Kamran turned at the heated sound of his minister’s voice. Hazan could not—and made no effort, in any case—to hide his irritation.
Kamran forced a smile. “Heavens, Hazan, are you having a fit? Can you not allow me even to say goodbye to my aunt?”
The minister did not acknowledge this. “The carriage is waiting outside, sire. Worry not about your horse, as I’ve arranged for his safe return to the palace.”
“I see,” said the prince quietly. He knew Hazan well enough; something was definitely wrong.
A servant handed Kamran his coat, another, his staff. In a matter of moments he’d bid goodbye to his aunt, walked the short path to the carriage, and settled into the seat across from his minister.
The carriage door had only just slammed shut when Kamran’s expression grew grave.
“Go on, then,” he said.
Hazan sighed. “We have received word, sire, from Tulan.”
Thirty
ALIZEH STOOD IN THE MIDDLE of the busy, bustling path, eyes closed, masked eyes turned up toward the sun.
It was a beautifully bright day, the air sharp with cold, not a cloud in the sky. The world around her was loud with the clop of hooves, the rattle of wheels, savory smoke from a nearby kabob shop coiling around her head. Midday in the royal city of Setar meant the gilded streets were alive with color and commotion, food carts busy with customers, shopkeepers shouting loudly about their wares.
Alizeh was equal parts hopeful and devastated as she stood there, both halves of her heart rife with excuses, all of them compelling. Very soon she’d be forced to examine closely her long list of troubles, but right then she wanted only a moment to breathe, to enjoy the scene.
Tiny finches hopped and tittered along the path while large, glittering crows cawed high in the sky, a few swooping low to perch on the heads and hats of passersby, the better to peck at their baubles. Angry shopkeepers chased after the winged beasts with their broomsticks, one unlucky proprietor accidentally knocking in the head a man who promptly fell over into the capable arms of a street child, who then pinched the man’s purse and darted into the crowd. The gentleman cried out, giving chase, but his pursuit of the small thief was thwarted by the commotion of a nearby pastry shop, which had flung open its doors without warning, unleashing a stream of servants into the madness.
Single file, no fewer than a dozen snodas cut a serpentine path through the crowd, each carrying a broad, circular tray high above their head, each heavy platter laden with baklava and pistachio brittle, soft nougat, syrupy donuts, and spirals of honey-soaked funnel cakes. The heady aroma of rosewater and sugar filled the air as the procession marched past, all maneuvering carefully so as not to disturb the many parked occupants of the path.
Alizeh turned.
Large, colorfully patterned rugs had been rolled out over the golden cobblestone, upon which women in bright, floral chadors sat cross-legged, laughing and sharing gossip as they sorted through bushels of purple saffron flowers. Their deft hands paused only occasionally, and only to sip tea from gilt-rimmed glasses; otherwise their nimble motions did not cease. Over and over they separated styles and stigmas from their lush flowers, adding the ruby-red saffron threads to the growing piles between them.