In minutes, a dozen girls were attending to her; the servants were shafit of a dizzying array of ethnicities, speaking Djinnistani with snatches of Arabic and Circassian, Gujarati and Swahili, along with more languages she couldn’t identify. Some offered tea and sherbet while others carefully assessed her wild hair and dusty skin. She had no idea who they thought she was, and they were careful not to ask but treated her as if she were a princess.
I could get used to this, Nahri thought what felt like hours later as she lolled in a warm bath, the water thick with luxurious oils, and the steamy air smelling of rose petals. One girl massaged her scalp, working a lather into her hair while another massaged her hands. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes.
She was far too drowsy to realize the room had gone silent before a clear voice jolted her out of her reverie.
“I see you have made yourself comfortable.”
Nahri’s eyes shot open. A girl sat on the bench opposite her bath, her legs delicately crossed underneath the most expensive-looking dress Nahri had ever seen.
She was stunning, with a beauty so unnaturally perfect Nahri knew in a moment not a drop of human blood ran through her veins. Her skin was dark and smooth, her lips full, and her hair carefully hidden under a simple ivory turban embellished with a single sapphire. Her gray-gold eyes and elongated features resembled the younger prince so sharply there could be no doubt who she was. Alizayd’s sister, the princess Zaynab.
Nahri crossed her arms and sank back under the bubbles, feeling exposed and plain. The other woman smiled, clearly enjoying her discomfort, and dipped a toe into the bath. Diamonds winked from a gold anklet.
“You’ve got the whole palace in quite an excitement,” she continued. “They’re preparing a massive feast even now. If you listen, you can hear the drums from the Grand Temple. Your entire tribe is celebrating in the streets.”
“I . . . I’m sorry . . . ,” Nahri stammered, uncertain what to say.
The princess stood with a grace that made Nahri want to weep with envy. Her gown fell in perfect waves to the floor; Nahri had never seen anything like it: a rose pink net as fine as a spider’s web, spun into a delicate floral pattern interlaced with seed pearls, and laid over a deep purple sheath. It didn’t look like something made by human hands, that was for certain.
“Nonsense,” Zaynab replied. “There’s no need to apologize. You are my father’s guest. It pleases me to see you content.” She beckoned toward a servant bearing a silver tray, plucking a powdery white confection from it and slipping it into her mouth without getting a speck of sugar on her painted lips. She glanced at the servant. “Have you offered any to the Banu Nahida?”
The girl gasped and dropped the tray. It clattered to the ground, and a pastry rolled into the scented water. The servant’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “The Banu Nahida?”
“Apparently so.” Zaynab gave Nahri a conspiratorial smile, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Manizheh’s own daughter, bewitched to look human. Exciting, isn’t it?” She gestured at the tray. “Better clean that quickly, girl. You’ve gossip to spread.” She turned back to Nahri with a shrug. “Nothing interesting ever happens around here.”
The studied casualness with which the princess revealed her identity left Nahri momentarily speechless with anger.
She’s testing me. Nahri checked her temper and reminded herself of Dara’s story about her origins. I was raised a simple human servant, saved by the Afshin and brought to a magical world I barely understand. React like that girl would.
Nahri forced an embarrassed smile, realizing this was only the first of many games she’d be playing in the palace. “Oh, I don’t know how interesting I am.” She gazed at Zaynab in open admiration. “I’ve never met a princess before. You’re so beautiful, my lady.”
Zaynab’s eyes lightened with pleasure. “Thank you, but please . . . call me Zaynab. We’re to be companions here, aren’t we?”
God protect me from such a fate. “Of course,” she agreed. “If you will call me Nahri.”
“Nahri it is.” Zaynab smiled and gestured her forth. “Come! You must be famished. I will have food brought to the gardens.”
She was more thirsty than famished; the heat of the bath had sucked every last bit of moisture from her skin. She glanced around, but her destroyed clothes were nowhere to be seen, and she had little desire to reveal more of herself before the frighteningly striking princess.
“Oh, come, there’s no reason to be shy.” Zaynab laughed, accurately guessing her thoughts. Mercifully, one of the servants reappeared at the same time, bearing a silken, sky blue robe. Nahri slipped into it and then followed Zaynab out of the bathhouse and along a stone path through the wild garden. The collar of Zaynab’s dress dropped low enough to expose the back of her elegant neck, and Nahri could not help but study the golden clasps of the two necklaces she wore. They looked delicate. Fragile.
Stop, she chided herself.
“Alizayd fears he has already offended you,” Zaynab said as she led Nahri to a wooden pavilion that seemed to appear from out of nowhere, perched over a clear pool. “I apologize. He has the unfortunate tendency to say exactly what’s on his mind.”
The pavilion was lined with a thick embroidered carpet and plush cushions. Nahri sank into them without instruction. “I thought honesty a virtue.”
“Not always.” Zaynab sat down across from her, elegantly folding herself onto a cushion. “He did tell me about your journey, however. What a grand adventure that must have been!” The princess smiled. “I could not resist the urge to peek in my father’s court to see the Afshin before I came here. God forgive me, but that’s a beautiful man. Even more handsome than the legends say.” She shrugged. “Although I guess that’s to be expected from a slave.”
“Why would you say that?” Nahri asked, the question coming out sharper than she intended.
Zaynab frowned. “Do you not know?” When Nahri said nothing, she continued. “Well, that’s part of the curse, is it not? To make them more alluring to their human masters?”
Dara hadn’t told her that, and the thought of the handsome daeva forced to obey the whims of a slew of enthralled masters was not something Nahri wished to dwell upon. She bit her lip, wordlessly watching as a handful of servants joined them on the pavilion, each bearing a silver platter loaded with food. The one closest to her, a stout woman with biceps as thick as Nahri’s legs, staggered from the weight of her platter and nearly dropped it in Nahri’s lap when she set it down.