“How could she not?” I drift closer to him, my skirts brushing his legs as we circle one another, then switch wrists. “You’re handsome and powerful. You’re what every little princess dreams of.”
His hand traces my waist and hip, hovering but not touching. “And what do little serving girls dream of?” he whispers.
With a smile I spin away from him, arms held in front of me, giving my skirts room to flare as I twirl. Then, before he can catch me, I slip into the crowd and leave him standing alone.
Caspida and Aladdin are still dancing, their steps stiff and formal, and Aladdin’s attempts to get her to laugh seem to be in vain. When he spies me watching, his eyebrows raise in a plea for help. I shrug and smile. Wish for it, thief, and I could make her beg for your love.
The diamonds in her hair reflect tiny pinpoints of light across his face, making him look bewitched. They are a beautiful pair, like lovers out of a story, brought together by destiny. I sigh and start to move away, but a voice stops me.
“You look like you swallowed a lemon.”
I turn to see Nessa at my side. She’s dressed in a two-piece gown of crimson that exposes her muscular stomach and the small gold ring piercing her navel. Her dreadlocks are worked into a braided knot on top of her head, their silver tips fanning out like a crown. I prickle with wariness at the sight of her, but she doesn’t seem to have brought her flute. A book of bound parchment is tucked under her arm.
Noticing my stare, she laughs and taps the book. “I always get bored at these things. So I brought a friend.” Drawing it out, she flips through the pages. “A history of the greatest queens of the eastern sea kingdoms, going all the way back to the Shepherdess Queen of Ghedda, who offered herself as sacrifice to save her city from sinking into the sea.”
My skin prickles, and I turn and look at her fully, my eagerness to find Zhian temporarily forgotten. “An ancient story,” I say slowly. “Few people know it.”
“I know a lot of old stories most people forget,” she says, running her finger down the spine. “And the Parthenian library is a marvel. One could spend a lifetime exploring it and never even count all the scrolls and books tucked away in there.”
“May I ask, Highness, how a Tytoshi princess finds herself in an Amulen court?”
“I suppose you may, since it’s Fahradan, after all.” She looks across the crowd, her eyes briefly lingering on Aladdin and Caspida. “When a Tytoshi king dies, his successor often cleanses the royal household, murdering his siblings and their children in order to protect his throne—and not without reason. Few Tytoshi rulers die of natural deaths, you know.” She turns back to me, her tone matter-of-fact. “When my grandfather died, my eldest uncle became king. Instead of letting my brother Vigo and me be strangled in our sleep, our mother smuggled us here. We were only babies at the time.”
“And was it your mother who taught you the art of jinn charming?”
The only indication Nessa gives of her alarm at this question is a slight flaring of her nostrils. “I beg your pardon?”
“Forgive me. I noticed your flute the other day. It is carved with Eskarr symbols—not an instrument for idle melodies.”
She studies me for a long moment, her jaw tensing, before replying shortly, “My twin and I earn our keep.” She nods at Aladdin and Caspida. “Your prince and my princess are stirring up quite the gossip.”
I glance around at the watching nobles, who all have eyes for Caspida and her companion. They whisper behind their spiced wine, and not all their expressions are benevolent.
“I’d tell your master to watch out,” Nessa continues. “Darian’s probably in some corner plotting murder.” She looks away, her face impassive, and I sigh. I’m likely to get no help from her in finding Zhian. The crowd presses in on me, until it seems I can hardly breathe. I must get out, must continue searching. I’ve wasted too much time already.
But before I can make a move, a peal of trumpets and a crier announce the king’s arrival. The crowd goes still and silent, watching with bowed heads, and I suppress a groan. Running out now would only draw unwanted attention.
The door atop the stair opens, and Malek leads in a small procession, Sulifer at his right shoulder. The king is hunched and pale, and the bright festival garb he wears looks more comical than regal on his wasted frame. He stumbles down the stairs, nearly toppling altogether before accepting an arm from his brother. Leaning on Sulifer, Malek makes his way to the floor and there pauses to catch his breath. His glazed eyes rove disinterestedly about.