“God be praised,” Nahri whispered. There was enough food in front of her to break the fasts of an entire Cairo neighborhood. Piles of saffron-hued rice glistening with buttery fat and studded with dried fruit, mounds of creamy vegetables, stacks of fried almond-colored patties. There were sheets of flatbread as long as her arms and small clay bowls filled with more varieties of nuts, herbed cheeses, and fruit than she could identify. But it all paled compared to the platter in front of her, the one which nearly toppled the servant carrying it: a whole pink fish resting in a bed of bright herbs, two stuffed pigeons, and a copper pot of meatballs in a thick yoghurt sauce.
Her gaze fell upon an oval dish piled with spiced rice, dried limes, and glistening chicken pieces. “Is that . . . kabsa?” She was pulling the dish toward her, helping herself before Zaynab could answer. Starving, exhausted, and having subsisted on stale manna and lentil soup for weeks, Nahri didn’t particularly care if she came off as uncouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste of the roasted chicken.
She caught sight of the princess’s amused expression as she eagerly scooped up more of the spiced rice. “Are you such a fan of Geziri cuisine, then?” Zaynab smiled, the expression not quite meeting her eyes. “I’ve never known a Daeva to eat meat.”
Nahri remembered Dara saying that, but shrugged it off. “I ate meat in Cairo.” She coughed, a lump in her throat from swallowing so quickly. “Do you have any water?” she choked out to one of the servants.
Across from her, Zaynab delicately pecked at a bowl of glistening black cherries. She nodded toward a glass carafe. “There is wine.”
Nahri hesitated, still a little leery of alcohol. But as she started to cough again, she decided a few sips wouldn’t hurt. “Please . . . thank you,” she added as a servant poured a generous goblet and handed it over. She took a long sip. It was far drier than the date wine Dara conjured up, crisp and cool. And rather refreshing; sweet without being overly so, with a delicate hint of some sort of berry.
“That’s delicious,” Nahri marveled.
Zaynab smiled again. “I’m glad you like it.”
Nahri kept eating, taking a few sips of wine every now and then to clear her throat. She was vaguely aware of Zaynab droning on about the history of the gardens; the sun had grown hot, but a gentle breeze blew over the cool water. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the faint sound of glass wind chimes. She blinked and leaned heavily into the soft cushions, a strange heaviness creeping over her limbs.
“Are you all right, Nahri?”
“Mmm?” She looked up.
Zaynab gestured toward Nahri’s goblet. “You may wish to ease up on that. I hear it’s rather potent.”
Nahri blinked, struggling to keep her eyes open. “Potent?”
“Supposedly. I wouldn’t know myself.” She shook her head. “The lectures I would get from my little brother if he caught me drinking wine . . .”
Nahri looked at her goblet. It was full—she realized now just how careful the servants had been to keep it full—and she had no idea how much she’d consumed.
Her head swam. “I . . .” Her voice came out in an embarrassing slur.
Zaynab gave her a mortified look, pressing a hand to her heart. “I’m sorry!” she apologized, her voice sugar sweet. “I should have guessed your . . . upbringing would not have exposed you to such things. Oh, Banu Nahida, do be careful,” she warned as Nahri fell forward on her palms. “Why don’t you rest?”
Nahri felt herself being helped into an impossibly soft mound of cushions. A servant started to fan her with a large paddle of palm fronds while another spread a thin canopy to block the sun.
“I . . . I can’t,” she tried to protest. She yawned, her vision going fuzzy. “I should find Dara . . .”
Zaynab laughed lightly. “I’m sure my father can handle him.”
Somewhere in a back corner of her mind, Zaynab’s confident laugh nagged at Nahri. A warning tried to break through the fog of her thoughts, raise her from the creeping exhaustion.
It failed. Her head fell back, and her eyes fluttered shut.
Nahri shivered awake, something cold and wet pressed against her forehead. She opened her eyes, blinking in the dim light. She was in a dark room, lying on an unfamiliar couch, a light quilt drawn up to her chest.
The palace, she remembered, the feast. The goblets Zaynab kept pressing on her . . . the odd heaviness that overtook her body . . .
She immediately drew up. Her head was not pleased at the swiftness of the movement and promptly protested with a pounding ache at the base of her skull. Nahri winced.
“Shhh, it’s all right.” A shadow separated itself from a murky corner. A woman, Nahri realized. A Daeva woman, her eyes as dark as Nahri’s and an ash mark upon her brow. Her black hair was pulled into a severe bun, and her face was lined with what looked like equal measures of hard work and age. She approached with a steaming metal cup. “Drink this. It will help.”
“I don’t understand,” Nahri muttered, rubbing her aching head. “I was eating and then . . .”
“I believe the hope was that you would pass out drunk among a pile of meat dishes and embarrass yourself,” the woman said lightly. “But you needn’t worry. I arrived before any real damage was done.”
What? Nahri pushed the cup away, suddenly less inclined to accept unknown drinks from strangers. “Why would she . . . who are you?” she demanded, bewildered.
A gentle smile lit the woman’s face. “Nisreen e-Kinshur. I was the senior aide to your mother and uncle. I came as soon as I received word—though it took me some time to make my way through the crowds celebrating in the streets.” She pressed her fingers together, inclining her brow. “It is an honor to meet you, my lady.”
Her head still spinning, Nahri wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “Okay,” she finally managed.
Nisreen motioned to the steaming cup. Whatever it was smelled bitter and a bit like pickled ginger. “That will help, I promise. Your uncle Rustam’s recipe, one that won him many fans among Daevabad’s merrymakers. And as for the first part of your question . . .” Nisreen lowered her voice. “You would be wise not to trust the princess; her mother Hatset never had much love for your family.”
And what does that have to do with me? Nahri wanted to protest. She’d been in Daevabad barely a day; could she really have already earned herself an adversary at the palace?
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Nahri looked up as a very familiar—and very welcome—face peeked in.
“You’re awake.” Dara smiled, looking relieved. “Finally. Feeling any better?”
“Not really,” Nahri grumbled. She took a sip of the tea and then made a face, setting it down on a low mirrored table beside her. She swiped at a few of the wild strands of hair sticking to her face as Dara approached. She could only imagine what she looked like. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Since yesterday.” He sat down beside her. Dara certainly looked well rested. He’d bathed and shaved and was dressed in a long pine green coat that set off his bright eyes. He wore new boots, and as he moved she caught sight of the saddlebag he placed on the ground.
The coat and shoes took on a new meaning. Nahri narrowed her eyes. “Are you going somewhere?”
His smile faded. “Lady Nisreen,” he asked, turning to the older woman. “Forgive me . . . but would you mind perhaps giving us a moment alone?”