Oh, what did it matter?
She sighed, sidestepping to avoid a trio of girls chasing each other through the crowd, and peered, halfheartedly, through the window against which she was pressed.
A row of children were sitting at a high counter, each devouring sandwiches of pomegranate ice cream, the blush-colored treat pressed between crisp disks of freshly baked waffles. Their grown-ups stood by smiling and scolding, wiping the sticky mouths and tearstained cheeks of the children they could catch, the others tearing wildly about the shop, rummaging through crystal tubs brimming with fruit taffies and colorful marzipan, rock sugar and rose-petal nougat.
Alizeh heard their muted laughter through the glass.
She tightened her grip on her luggage then, tensing as her heart fractured in her chest. Alizeh, too, had once been a child, had once had parents who spoiled her thus. How good it was to be loved, she thought. How very important.
A curious little girl caught her eye then, and waved.
Tentatively, Alizeh waved back.
She was homeless. Jobless. All she owned in the world she carried in a single, worn carpet bag, the sum total of her coin scarcely two coppers altogether. She had nothing and no one to claim but herself, and it would have to be enough.
It would always have to be enough.
Even in her most desperate moments, Alizeh had found the courage to move forward by searching the depths of herself; she’d found hope in the sharpness of her mind, in the capacity of her own capable hands, in the endurance of her unrelenting spirit.
She would be broken by nothing.
She refused.
It was time, then, for her to find escape from the travails of her life. Hazan would help—but she first had to forge a path through her current predicament.
She needed to form a plan.
How might she source the necessary material and notions needed to make herself a gown? She would’ve had more coin to her name except that Miss Huda had yet to pay her an advance against the five gowns she’d requested; instead, the young woman was waiting first to see how Alizeh might transform the taffeta ahead of the ball tonight, which now lay crumpled inside her bag.
Alizeh sighed.
Two coppers were all she had, then, and they would afford her next to nothing from the cloth merchants.
She grimaced and pushed on, her mind working. An elderly man with a wispy beard and white turban shot past her on a bright-blue bicycle, coming to a terrifying halt not twenty feet away. She watched as he unfolded his narrow body from the seat, unpacked a sign from the basket of his transport, and hooked the wooden board onto the front of a nearby cart.
Teethmaker, it read.
When he saw her staring, he beckoned her close, offering her a discount on a pair of third molars.
Alizeh almost smiled as she shook her head, staring at the scenes around her now with a touch of sadness. For months she’d lived in this royal city, and never before had she been able to see it like this, at its most dynamic, enchanting hour. Troubadours were parked at intervals with santoor and setar, filling the streets with music, flooding her heart with emotion. She smiled in earnest as cheerful pedestrians spared what moments they had to dance, to clap hands as they passed.
Her whole life seemed suddenly surreal to her, surreal because the sounds and scenes that surrounded her were so incongruously life-affirming.
With some effort, Alizeh fought back the maelstrom of emotion threatening to upend her mind and focused her thoughts instead on the many tasks ahead. With purposeful strides she passed the confectionary shop and the noisy coppersmith next door; she shot past a dusty rug emporium, colorful rolls stacked to the ceiling and spilling out of doorways, then a bakery and its open windows, the heavenly aroma of what she knew to be fresh bread filling her nose.
Suddenly, she slowed—her gaze lingering a moment on the large flour sacks by the door.
Alizeh could fashion a garment out of near anything, but even if she were able to source enough of a substandard textile, arriving at the ball in a burlap dress would only make her a small spectacle. If she wanted to disappear, she’d need to look like the others in attendance, which meant wearing nothing at all unusual.
She hesitated, appraising herself a moment.
Alizeh had always taken meticulous care of the little she owned, but even so, her calico work dress was nearly worn through. The gray frock had always been dull, but it appeared even more lifeless at present, faded and limp with relentless wear. She had one other spare gown, and she did not have to see it to know it was in a similar state. Her stockings, however, were still serviceable; her boots, too, were sturdy despite needing a polish—though the tear in one toe had yet to be mended.