He smiles brightly, and the pleasure in his eyes is too bright to bear. I look away, scanning the room for familiar faces. Though the custom is that servants may mingle freely with their lords, it is easy to see that most of the people here are nobility. The servants must be having their own Fahradan in some other part of the palace. But not all—a few unlucky ones wind through the crowd, bearing flagons of wine or trays of pastries.
The empty throne is cordoned off with silk rope, awaiting the king. A temporary dais has been set up against one wall, and on it a group of musicians play a lilting, fast-paced tune to which a few couples are already dancing wrist to wrist, as I taught Aladdin. Braziers twice as high as a man and propped up by massive tripods cast light that reaches even the tops of the mighty domes overhead. I don’t see the pigeons that had populated the ceiling the day we met the king, and I wonder what poor fool’s job it was to clear them out. Here and there, the crowd opens to give space for fire-breathers, acrobats, snake charmers, and sword swallowers.
“I don’t see her,” says Aladdin. “Is she coming? What if she—”
“Sh. Look.”
At the far end of the throne room, atop a high double stair carved with winged men and horses, is a tall door of rich teak. It opens slowly, drawn by four servants, to reveal Caspida and her girls, who float into the hall. The princess wears a gown of pure, pale gold lined with crimson. Her hair, bound up in an elaborate swirl, is encased in a fine net of delicate gold chains, each dripping with tiny diamonds. Her hair is the night speckled with stars, but none brighter than her eyes, which sweep across the room. Across the backs of her hands, delicate red patterns worked in henna swirl and curl like smoke.
The court lets out an appreciative sigh, pausing to bow toward her. She descends the stair smoothly, her girls flanking her. Above them, Darian appears in the doorway, dressed in a tight red coat, topped with a gold turban. He waves regally before descending, his head high and his lips peeled back in a smile.
I lean over and nudge a poleaxed Aladdin, whose eyes are trained on the princess. “Hurry. Go ask her to dance before anyone else does!”
He nods dazedly and steps forward. I release a short breath, forcing myself to let him go alone. He is on his own now, and I can only hope he won’t make an utter fool of himself. Now if I can make my way to an exit, I can get back to searching for Zhian. The seconds slip away faster than ever, and my stomach twists with worry.
I turn around and nearly smack into a skinny noble with a thin mustache and bad breath.
“Will you dance with me, lady?” he asks. Then, leaning in, he whispers, “You can’t say no! Not tonight.”
I am trapped between him and one of the tall pillars, and I wince as his breath assaults me. He grabs my wrist tightly and tries to pull me toward the dance floor, when suddenly a hand closes on his arm and wrenches it away.
“The lady already promised me the next round,” says a voice.
I turn to see who has come thinking to rescue me—and freeze.
Darian’s smile is small and tight. He bows, but the gesture is mocking, his eyes brazenly studying my form through the gown.
“We haven’t met,” he says. “I am Prince Darian.”
The skinny man mumbles an apology and disappears. I start to turn away, but Darian smoothly steps in front of me, putting his wrist to mine and turning me into the dance. The crowd around us parts, giving us space to turn. I flush with annoyance. The gods are conspiring against me tonight.
“Your Highness, I am—”
“I know who you are,” says Darian. “You’re Zahra, Rahzad’s girl.” He turns sharply, and I mirror him, watching him from the corner of my eye.
“You’re very bold for a prince,” I tell him, whirling and meeting his wrist.
“You’re very pretty for a serving girl.”
I spot Aladdin then, not far away, settling into a dance with Caspida. He’s babbling at her, smiling too widely, and she’s more interested in watching Darian and me. Our gazes cross, and in her eyes is burning curiosity, but then we both turn away.
“What’s your master’s game, then?” Darian asks in a low tone.
We circle one another, wrists pressed together, his pulse racing with anger. He has seen Aladdin and Caspida dancing, and rage burns beneath his cool exterior.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord. I am just a servant.”
“Liar. You’re more than that. Caspida’s taken an interest in you, and you meet my eye without looking down. Frankly I don’t care who or what you really are—what I want to know is where your master gets off thinking he can cross me.”
I suppress a wince. I always was bad at passing myself off as a servant. Too impressed with yourself for your own good is what you often said, Habiba.
“How could he possibly threaten you?” I ask Darian.
“He doesn’t. He annoys me.”
“It’s a particular habit of his.” The music quickens and our steps match it, until we are whirling and turning at a dizzying speed.
Darian ceases talking to concentrate on the dance, but when the music slows again he says, “Caspida and I have been betrothed since birth. She loves me.”