“And never forget my heart is always in your hands, Haroun.”
The doors to the chambers opened, and Shahrzad walked through them in a flurry of wild hair and jeweled silk.
Haroun raced to the edge of the bed to greet her.
“Mama, don’t tell Uncle Artan I told you, but he said once I learn my lessons this week, he will teach me how to fly!”
Khalid narrowed his gaze. “Haroun-jan, you told me you promised Uncle Artan you wouldn’t tell your mother.”
The boy side-eyed his father with a sheepish glance. “I forgot.”
Shahrzad laughed. “You must learn to keep your promises, my star. For a man who cannot keep his promises is nothing.” She brushed back his tangle of wavy black hair. “And what’s this about you flying?” Shahrzad reached for one of the wilted roses beside her son’s bed. “If you’re so interested in flying with Uncle Artan, then perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you the story I intended to start tonight. It might only encourage you.” With a twist of her hand, Shahrzad brought the flower back to life.
“No!” Haroun leapt back to his place in the center of the cushions. “I won’t learn to fly.” He smiled, and it was so wide and bright and perfect that it turned up the edges of every feature on his perfect face. “Even though Amira said it wasn’t scary, and—”
“Sometimes Amira al-Khoury likes to embellish the truth. Just like her mother.” Shahrzad held back a sigh.
“I know. But I trust her because she’s my best friend.” Haroun’s smile widened. “Don’t worry, Mama. I won’t fly . . . yet.”
With a wide smile of her own, Shahrzad settled beside the most beautiful ones in existence. Her husband and her son. The small boy lying alongside her was a tiny mirror of Khalid, save for having her nose and her wild waves of hair.
Save for the white scar across Khalid’s cheek.
One of the marks from the night her father had given his life for their love. One on his face. One at his heart. These marks that made her thankful, each day, to be alive. To share this life with those she loved.
She thought for a moment about Shiva. A warmth settled upon her.
All Shahrzad wanted was before her. All Shahrzad needed was within her.
She woke to each dawn with a grateful heart.
“Did all go well with Irsa?” Khalid asked as Shahrzad leaned against a cushion.
“Yes,” Shahrzad replied, lifting the rose to take in its scent. “She’s still busy in the solarium studying medicinal herbs alongside Artan. But she might accompany Tariq when he next visits Amardha.”
Khalid raised a brow. “Still trying for a match? Both you and Irsa are worse than the gossips on the street corners of the souk. Always plotting something.” A warm light gleamed in his eyes.
“I’m not doing anything!” Shahrzad threw up her hands. “Tariq travels to Amardha on his own accord. If he manages to spend an inordinate amount of time with Yasmine while doing so, then . . .”
One side of Khalid’s mouth slid upward. “Indeed.”
“Mama?” Haroun cleared his throat, looking between his parents. “The story?”
“Ah, yes. Of course!” She pulled him close. “Since my most esteemed effendi is so enamored by the idea of flying, I thought I would begin this tale in a land not so far from here. Our hero begins his journey on a dark night, where he slips from his bedroom window into a garden, with naught but a small rug under his arm. An ugly, blemished rug, with a medallion at its center and scorch marks along its sides.”
“A rug?” Haroun asked, a furrow lining his forehead.
“Yes. A rug.” Shahrzad’s eyes sparkled. “But this is no ordinary rug! It is a rug that can take our hero wherever he wishes to go. To any time and any place. His imagination is the only thing that binds him. Should he wish to see the magical creatures that swim in a blue sea a thousand leagues away, he can, if he but wishes so. If he wishes to know what the snow at the top of the highest peak tastes like when mixed with the finest honey in the markets of Damascus, he has but to ask. Alas, these are not his chief concerns. For he has but one dream, and one dream only.”
Shahrzad paused, staring down at the boy at her side. Then she glanced up at the man across the silken cushions.
Her heart was as boundless as the ocean. As vast as the sky.
“Do you want to know more about our hero?” she asked.
Haroun’s eyes danced. “Yes!”
“Then we begin with the first tale . . . ‘Haroun and the Magic Carpet.’”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I FEEL AS THOUGH I ONLY YESTERDAY PENNED THE acknowledgments for The Wrath and the Dawn, and here I am with a finished series in my sights. Trite though it may sound, time certainly does fly.