She removed her palm and swallowed. The rug fell flat.
“Cut the strings, you goose. Did you swallow your ears just now, along with your nerve?”
“I heard you the first thousand times, you rat!” With a small grin for Shiva’s memory, Shahrzad reached for an empty tumbler and the pitcher of water on the low table nearby. Catching her tongue between her teeth, she filled the tumbler halfway and placed it within the center medallion of the ugliest carpet in all of creation.
“Now for the true test,” she muttered.
Shahrzad returned her palm to the carpet. Just as before, the strange feeling unfurled around her heart before tingling down her arm. The edges of the rug bowed in on themselves, then the rug took to the air. Soon, there was nothing beneath it but empty space. She lifted onto her knees, moving with caution. The tumbler had not stirred from within the medallion; not a single drop of water had spilt. Exhaling through her nose, Shahrzad floated her fingers to the right. The rug followed along at shoulder level, the water’s surface as calm as an unruffled lake.
Shahrzad decided to take the enterprise a step further.
She stood without warning, her hand spiking toward the steepled ceiling of the tent. Shahrzad expected the carpet to careen out of control, but—though it lifted in the mere blink of an eye—it refused to be buffeted about on such a graceless tide. Instead, it rippled as though it were under the spell of the lightest of breezes. Trailing her fingertips, it rose above her head—a series of small waves upon an invisible shore—before spiraling back to the ground at her command. She repeated the motions twice. Up. Down. And back again. Not once did the carpet break contact with her skin. Not once did it lose control. It bore the cup as its weightless passenger, from ceiling to floor like clouds upon the air.
The most Shahrzad ever saw was the water loll from brim to brim, never spilling, simply swirling about, as though it were dancing to a languorous music it alone could hear.
Her eyes wide, she let the magic carpet circle back to the earth.
In her ears, the voice of her best friend—the voice behind the secret summoning—began to laugh, lyrically, beautifully.
Teasingly.
Your turn, you goose.
Shahrzad smiled to herself. Tomorrow night she would test the magic carpet again.
Without the tumbler.
Baba looked better this morning. At least, that was what Irsa thought. He didn’t seem quite as wan or quite so withered. And he had swallowed his mixture of water and herbs with a bit more relish than he had yesterday.
Perhaps he would wake soon.
Irsa made a face as she blew the sticky strands of hair off her forehead. She was certain she was starting to resemble one of Rey’s innumerable street urchins. Replete with dirt along the collar and sand behind the ears. With a huff, Irsa lifted her chestnut braid and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck.
Merciful God! Why was her father’s tent so much hotter than her own? It felt like a bakery on a summer afternoon. How could Baba stand it?
Irsa studied his sallow complexion once more, then finished mopping the sweat from his forehead. “Please wake up, Baba. It’s my birthday today. And it would be the best gift of all to hear your voice. Or see your smile.” She pressed a kiss to his brow before collecting her things and striding to the entrance of her father’s tent.
Lost in thought, Irsa failed to notice the lanky figure standing just outside.
“Irsa al-Khayzuran.”
She stopped short. Turned. Almost tripped over a sandaled heel. Then raised a hand to shield her eyes from the searing rays above.
“I waited a long time in the sun for you . . . so that I could make sure all was well after yesterday’s ordeal,” Rahim al-Din Walad stated quietly. “But I suppose I’m rather easy to ignore?”
Heat rose in her neck. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, I didn’t mean to—”
His attempt at laughter sounded like anything but. “I’m only teasing, Cricket.”
Irsa cleared her throat. “Well, don’t.” Rahim knew she hated that nickname.
He managed a soft laugh. It sounded kind of dry, like parchment being torn in two, but Irsa felt strangely soothed by it. Odd things had always soothed her in such a way.
Like the peculiar expression on Rahim’s face.
“As you can see, I’m quite well.” Color sprang into her cheeks. “Did you need—something else?”
“Do people only talk to you when they need something?”
Why did he always ask so many questions? And why did it irritate her so? “No. They only talk to me when they need to. Or when they think I need something, as you usually do,” she retorted. “But I suppose you’re waiting in the hot sun for your health?” As soon as the question rolled off her tongue, Irsa wanted to clap her hand over her mouth.