Though he spoke in hushed tones, Irsa looked to the tent’s entrance before answering. “It’s here,” she whispered. “In my satchel.”
The caliph’s expression lost a hint of its starkness. He returned to studying Irsa, his face creasing and uncreasing with his unspoken thoughts. “I don’t”—he inhaled through his nose—“I’ve never had a sister.” His thick brows flattened, casting a darker shadow above his eyes. “And there’s never been a time I’ve stopped to form an opinion on the matter. Have you ever stopped to think what it would be like to have a brother?”
“Well, I—I don’t have a brother.”
But in truth Irsa had always wanted one. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d considered what it would be like to have someone to look up to, as a sister would a brother. Someone to tease her, as only a brother could. Someone to watch over her and needle her when it was both necessary and unnecessary.
For many years, Irsa had thought to find this brother in Tariq. But Tariq had always been occupied by other, grander things—bows and arrows and bets and falcons. Grander things that befit a boy such as he. Much like Shahrzad. And Irsa had never truly resented it. For she’d always hoped things would change as they grew older.
That Tariq would see Irsa as his sister. And become a true brother to her in time.
The caliph inclined his head contemplatively. “Today when you yelled at me—it was the first time I realized what it might be like. To have a sister.”
“And what did you think?” Irsa whispered.
“I rather liked it.”
Her mouth fell ajar. “Even though I yelled at you?”
“In truth, that might have made all the difference.”
“Really?” Irsa blinked, astounded. “Goodness, but you’re odd. Has anyone ever told you that?”
His smile appeared again, just as mystifying as before. Then—
The Caliph of Khorasan laughed.
And it was not at all like she would have expected.
It was relaxed. Soft and melodic. Though it was definitely not a sound that appeared to have been much practiced, it was also not a self-conscious laugh. It was simply a laugh that spoke of a better time. A time when a small boy laughed at better, brighter things.
Irsa had the distinct feeling she was bearing witness to a rather extraordinary event.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying her best to be respectful, though she knew her behavior had already surpassed the notion. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were odd.”
“You did far more than insinuate; you said it outright.” The caliph’s eyes gleamed, but Irsa could detect no hint of menace in them.
“Yes.” She fiddled with her sleeve. “I suppose I did.”
“In any case, I am far from offended. In all things, I find myself grateful to you. I should probably say as much.”
Her gaze widened. Would she never cease to be surprised by him?
“Thank you . . .” His mouth slanted, as though he were still deliberating something. “Irsa.”
Irsa, too, found herself lost in a moment of deliberation. Then she came to a sudden, irrevocable decision.
“You’re welcome . . . Khalid.”
She aimed a crooked smile at him, and disbelief began warming its way through her. Before the color could rise into her cheeks, she collected the change of clothes Rahim had provided and passed them to the—to Khalid.
He stood and tugged the stained rida’ from his shoulders. Then he glided toward the pitcher of water, without a word.
Flustered by the budding understanding of why her sister might have chosen to love this supposed monster, Irsa fumbled for her satchel. She passed the linen-bound book to Khalid in a flurry. Then Irsa raced from the tent, her mind a muddle of thoughts.
She turned the corner into utter darkness.
And found Rahim pacing outside.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, drawing back.
He came up short at the sight of her. “I—I was . . .” He dragged a hand along the scruff at his jaw with a scritch. His voice had a gravelly quality to it. Even more so than usual. As though he’d been yelling to the heavens for an age.
“I guess I’m waiting for you,” Rahim finished, firming both his tone and his countenance. When he blinked, his ink-black lashes fanned against the soft skin of his eyelids with an almost sultry kind of slowness. “Waiting to see if you’re all right.”
“Oh.” Irsa tried not to sound eager. And failed miserably.
“Oh?”
She twisted her braid around her fingers. “Why didn’t you just come in?”
At that, Rahim shot her a morose smile. “He doesn’t like me.”
“I don’t think he likes many people.”
“He likes you.” His smile stayed fixed.
“You think so?”
Rahim nodded. “I’m sure of it. He listened to you. And he doesn’t strike me as the sort of king who does that often.” He opened his mouth to say more, then shut it as though he’d reconsidered the matter.
Irsa could no longer stomach it. Could no longer stomach not knowing all Rahim meant to say. Everything he thought, at any given time. She knew it was beyond the pale, but she wanted to know everything he ever wished or wanted, at all times.
At least now the reason behind such desires had a name.