For her father had always been a good man. A kind man. A smart man.
A man with so much to be proud of. Daughters who loved him. And a life still left to live. But Shahrzad knew her father’s mind had fallen prey to itself. Had begun to believe its own lies.
So on this particular afternoon, Shahrzad went about preparing bread for the evening meal in a haze of worry.
“Shazi?” Irsa said from beside her.
“Hmm?”
Her sister sighed with practiced patience. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing the dough for barbari.”
“I can see that. But . . . you’re using the flour for sangak.”
When Shahrzad looked down and realized her error, she almost hurled the sticky mass into the patchwork fabric of the tent. But she knew it would do little to mollify her and only create more work in the end. So, instead, Shahrzad dumped the batch of not-bread onto the floor in one fell swoop. At least that particular mishap could be remedied in a trice. It was childish, but the dough did make the most satisfying splat as it struck the ground.
Irsa tsked. “I suppose we could both use a moment of rest.”
With that, Irsa reached for two cups and a few sprigs of mint, which she passed along to Shahrzad. Then Irsa walked behind a table laden with root vegetables. She ducked beneath a trellis strung with drying herbs before reemerging with a small platter of tiny round cakes made from ground almonds and candied apricots, covered in a dusting of sugar.
The two girls sat on the floor beside the lump of failed dough. Shahrzad mashed the sprigs of mint into the cups and poured two streams of tea. Then she snagged a tiny almond cake.
“What’s troubling you?” Irsa said before breaking a crumbly cake in two.
“Nothing.” Shahrzad’s reply was unusually sullen.
“Fine. Nothing is troubling you.” Irsa licked the sugar dust from her fingertips. “One day, I will no longer ask, and it will be your own fault.”
“You’re becoming quite prickly. Perhaps you should stop spending so much time around Rahim al-Din Walad.” Shahrzad almost grinned.
“And you’re becoming quite the liar.” Irsa shot Shahrzad a pointed glance. “You’ve made so many promises to me. Promises you’ve yet to keep.”
Shahrzad took a deep breath. Everything Irsa had said was true. She’d long been denying Irsa her confidence. But her intentions had only ever been well meaning. As such, it seemed wrong to include Irsa now that Shahrzad was mired in a quandary of her own making.
But in the recent past, such pride had nearly proven to be Shahrzad’s downfall. Her refusal to see the truth through the tales had almost cost her Khalid’s love. If she confided in her sister now, perhaps Irsa could provide the assistance she so desperately needed. Perhaps two heads would prevail where one had failed, as their mother had so often said.
Or perhaps Shahrzad would rue the day she’d put her sister’s life at risk for her own selfish gain.
Shahrzad took a slow sip of tea and tried to swallow her doubts in a swirl of mint and sugar.
I can’t continue in such a manner. Something must change.
Perhaps that something is me.
“I need to take Baba’s book and key from him . . .” Shahrzad did not look away from her sister as she began.
Irsa’s eyebrows pulled together in quizzical fashion.
“Without him knowing I’ve taken them,” she finished. “At least not immediately. Can you think of a way?”
Irsa chewed on almond cake as she thought. “There’s a sleeping draught in the scroll of curatives Rahim gave me. Do you think that would work?”
Shahrzad pursed her lips in consideration.
It’s risky. But I have been unable to come up with a better solution for the whole of the past three days.
“It might.”
“However, I should caution you,” Irsa continued. “I think it will take time for Baba to fall asleep. And I don’t know how effective the draught is, as I’ve yet to try it.” She sipped her tea. “Why do you need his book, Shazi? And why can you not simply ask him for it?”
Shahrzad settled her face into a mask of false composure. It would be imprudent of her to tell Irsa everything she had learned. Imprudent to trouble her sister with such painful details about her father’s sad exploits. “Why I need it is not—”
“No.” Irsa’s mouth thinned. “If you want my help, I want you to tell me your reasons. Tell me the truth.”
“The truth is not—”
“Pretty? Easy? As it would seem?” Irsa scoffed, almost stiffly. “How old do you think I am, Shazi? A mere babe in swaddling? Or a young woman able to concoct a sleeping draught. For you cannot have both.”
Shahrzad blinked, taken aback by the simple truth of her sister’s words. Irsa was right. Shahrzad could no longer pick and choose what she saw in her. Nor could she continue protecting her. No matter how much she might wish to do so.