marked one as Daeva. Hers was a face that had once convinced Dara she was a shafit with the barest drop of magical blood in her veins. And it was a face that was apparently a lie, the product of a marid curse—or so the ifrit who’d hunted her had claimed, a claim Ghassan had seized upon in order to publicly declare her a pureblood.
Privately, of course, he’d said something very different. Not that it mattered. Nahri suspected she would never fully discern the truth of her origins. But the laissez-faire approach to her appearance had changed when she married Muntadhir. The future queen of Daevabad was expected to look the part, and so hairdressers arranged her braids to cover the tips of her ears. Ash was mixed into her kohl to make her eyes look darker. And then the cursed ivory pot appeared. It contained an incredibly expensive powder made from the Creator only knew what that when brushed upon her skin gave Nahri the shimmer of a pureblood for hours.
It was an illusion, a waste of time and an utter facade—and all for a future queen who couldn’t even protect her tribesmen from being beaten and robbed in front of her. And the fact that it was her shafit servants who were forced to create an image of the blood purity that circumscribed their lives … it made Nahri feel ill. “No,” she finally replied, trying not to let her revulsion show. “I don’t need that.”
There was a knock on the door and then Nisreen entered.
Nahri groaned. “No. I need a night off. Tell whoever it is to heal themselves.”
Her mentor gave her a wounded smile. “It is not always work that I seek you for.” She glanced at Nahri’s maids. “Would you mind leaving us?”
They obeyed at once, and Nisreen joined her at the dressing table. “You look very pretty,” she said. “That dress is beautiful. Is it new?”
Nahri nodded. “A gift from a Sahrayn seamstress happy to no longer have silver-pox.”
“Your husband will be hard-pressed to take his eyes off you in that.”
“I suppose,” Nahri said, fighting embarrassment. She wasn’t sure why she was even bothering. Muntadhir had married her for her name, not her face, and her husband was so constantly surrounded by djinn who were breathtakingly gorgeous—men and women who had voices like angels and smiles that could lure humans to madness—that it seemed a waste of time to even attempt to attract his eye.
Nisreen’s gaze darted to the door before she set down the small silver chalice that had been casually concealed in the folds of her shawl. “I’ve prepared your tea.”
Nahri stared at the chalice, the sharp scent of herbs wafting from pale green liquid. They both knew what kind of “tea” it was: the kind Nahri drank only when she visited Muntadhir. “I still worry we’re going to get caught.”
Nisreen shrugged. “Ghassan probably has his suspicions, but you’re a Nahid healer. On this, he’s going to have a hard time outmaneuvering you, and it’s worth the risk to buy you a bit of time.”
“A bit of time is all it’s buying.” Ghassan hadn’t overly pressed on the topic of grandchildren yet. Djinn didn’t conceive easily, and it was entirely reasonable the emir and his wife had yet to be blessed with an heir. But she doubted he’d hold his tongue for long.
Nisreen must have heard the uncertainty in her voice. “That is enough for now.” She pushed the cup into Nahri’s hands. “Take things here day by day.”
Nahri gulped the tea and then stood, pulling a hooded robe over her dress. “I should go.” She was early, but if she left now, she could sneak through the back passages and have a few minutes to herself rather than being escorted by one of Muntadhir’s stewardesses.
“I won’t delay you.” Nisreen stood as well, and when she met Nahri’s eyes, there was conviction in her gaze. “Have faith, my lady. Your future here is brighter than you realize.”
“You always say that.” Nahri sighed. “I wish I had your confidence.”
“You will one day,” Nisreen promised. She shooed her off. “Go on then. Don’t let me keep you.”
Nahri did, taking one of the private corridors that led from the harem garden to the royal apartments on the upper level of the palatial ziggurat, a level with an excellent view of Daevabad’s lake. All the Qahtanis had quarters up there save Zaynab, who preferred the garden below.
Just as Ali had. The thought came to her unbidden—and unwelcome. She hated thinking about Ali, hated that five years after that night, a sting of humiliation still pierced her when she recalled how her supposed friend had quietly led her and Dara into a deadly trap. The naive young prince should have been the last one capable of duping her, and yet he had.
And she hated that despite everything, part of her still worried about him. For it was damnably clear—no matter what the Qahtanis pretended—that Ali was not merely “leading a garrison” in the peace of his ancestral land. He’d been cast out, and under terms Nahri suspected were rather dire.
She emerged onto the expansive balcony that ran the length of Muntadhir’s apartment. Like everything he owned, it was achingly sophisticated, its trellised wooden railings and screens carved in the semblance of a garden, with embroidered panels of silk draped to mimic a tent. Frankincense smoldered inside a fiery brazier across from a pile of brocaded cushions that sat angled toward the best view of the lake.
Cushions that were very much not empty. Nahri abruptly stilled, catching sight of Jamshid and Muntadhir sitting across from each other. Jamshid’s presence there didn’t surprise her—but the fact that they were clearly arguing did.
“Tell your father to send him back!” Jamshid was insisting. “Is there any reason he can’t drop his damned cargo on the beach and turn right around?”
“I tried.” Muntadhir sounded nearly hysterical. “I begged my father, and do you know what he told me?” He let out a choked, humorless laugh. “To go put an heir in my Nahid wife if I was so worried about my position. That’s all we are to him. Pawns in his damned political game. And now his favorite, sharpest piece is returning.”
Nahri frowned in confusion. Pushing aside the guilt she felt for eavesdropping—more on account of Jamshid, her friend, than for the sake of her politician of a husband, who almost certainly had a loyal spy or two installed in her infirmary—she crept closer, tucking herself into a niche between a potted fern and an ornamental carved screen.
She took a deep breath. The palace’s magic was as unpredictable as it was powerful, and though Nahri had been quietly working to learn how to better call upon it, doing so was always a risk—she had no doubt that if Ghassan got an inkling of what she was up to, she’d be promptly punished.
But sometimes a little risk was worth it. Nahri focused on the shadows at her feet. Grow, she urged, beckoning them closer and allowing her fear of getting caught to expand. Protect me.
They did so, the shadows sweeping up to envelop her in a cloak of darkness. Breathing a bit easier, Nahri moved closer to the screen to peer through the cutouts in the wood. The two men were alone, Jamshid seated on the edge of a cushion as he watched Muntadhir with open concern.
Muntadhir shot to his feet, visibly trembling. “His mother’s going to kill me.” He paced, pulling anxiously at his beard. “The Ayaanle have wanted this for years. He’ll no sooner be back in Daevabad than I’ll be waking up with a cord around my neck.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Jamshid said sharply. “Muntadhir, you need to calm down and think this—no.” His hand shot out to grab Muntadhir’s as her husband lunged for the bottle of wine on the table. “Stop. That’s not going to help you.”
Muntadhir offered a broken smile. “I disagree,” he said weakly. He looked close to tears. “Wine is reportedly an excellent companion during one’s downfall.”
“There’s not going to be any downfall.” Jamshid pulled Muntadhir onto the cushion beside him. “There’s not,”