“Of course! How inconsiderate of me. You must be quite hungry.” Salim laughed, motioning toward the double doors behind her. Her father did not even bother turning as he fidgeted with the scalloped spoon beside his plate.
Shahrzad heard them swing open, and the scent of butter and spices wafted her way. Despite her resolve not to eat a morsel until she’d learned of Irsa’s whereabouts, the intoxicating aroma made it rather difficult for her to stand firm in this conviction. When the servants placed a silver platter of spiced potatoes before her, along with a perfect mound of pistachio-and-pomegranate rice surrounded by skewers of saffron chicken, still-flaming lamb kebabs, and steaming tomatoes all heaped upon ornate serving trays, Shahrzad’s stomach rumbled with hunger.
She could not remember the last time she had eaten so well.
Her mouth salivated at the smell of the simmering stew set before her—one of aromatic lentils and caramelized onions. The sweet scent of cinnamon and cloves called to her, the dates and the aubergines taunting her even further.
The last straw was the sight of the quince chutney.
Shahrzad sat on her hands.
“Are you not hungry?” Salim asked, a wicked gleam in his eye. “I’ve selected dishes I’m told are your favorites.”
Her father frowned at her. “Shahrzad-jan, the sultan’s daughter told the cook to prepare a special meal in your honor.”
“I’m sure she did,” Shahrzad muttered, gnawing the inside of her cheek.
“Perhaps my daughter can persuade you to eat.” The light in Salim’s eyes burned bright as he glanced over her shoulder.
Shahrzad did not look behind her, for the last thing she wanted to see at the moment was the perfect smile of Yasmine el-Sharif.
If she attempts to bait me tonight, it will not be soot I smear on her teeth.
No.
It will be my fist.
“Come, daughter,” Salim called out. “Our guest is quite excited to see you.”
Indeed. Positively thrilled.
Shahrzad pursed her lips and wrapped her fingers around the silken cushion at her sides as though it would imbue her with the strength to remain calm.
The soft shuffle of slippered footsteps on polished granite emanated nearby.
With obvious reluctance, Shahrzad lifted her gaze.
Eyes the color of a cerulean sky sparkled down at her.
Shahrzad’s chin struck her collarbone in horror.
“Hello, Brat Calipha.”
Despina.
Many things happened all at once.
First, Shahrzad bolted to her feet, intent on attacking her former handmaiden. A flurry of motion converged upon them.
Before the guards could reach her, Shahrzad stopped short.
Her reaction was not a result of the soldiers’ unspoken threat. Nor was it a result of some misplaced sense of propriety. Alas with Shahrzad, it was never that. It was something else entirely.
It was worry. Worry for a former friend. Worry for a child not yet born.
Just as soon as the worry coursed through Shahrzad, it was eclipsed by another tide of emotion.
Bitterness. Black and choking bitterness.
Her gaze flicked over the sweeping curves of the girl before her—always lovely—and now even more resplendent, in a dress of amethyst silk, gathered at both shoulders by copper cuffs forming shimmering folds. These silken folds fell to Despina’s feet in streams of lilac and mauve. The deep cut of the garment only accentuated her beautiful shape, as did the high waist and the copper sash, embellished with brilliant gemstones of vivid purple and blush pink, encircled in rose gold. Her honey-walnut hair was piled atop her head in an ornate arrangement adorned with a band of glittering jewels.
A crown.
The bitterness swelled within Shahrzad.
Despina had been many things to Shahrzad once. She’d been a friend when Shahrzad had most needed it. A confidante where Shahrzad had had none. But it was clear everything Shahrzad had known about Despina had been cloaked in lies. For it was beyond evident she was even more things now. The secret daughter of Salim Ali el-Sharif. A princess of Parthia. A spy and a deceiver.
Above all things, it was clear Despina had never been Shahrzad’s friend.
“Was there ever a moment in which you told me the truth?” Shahrzad demanded in a raw whisper.
Despina’s lips gathered into a perfect moue. An all-too-familiar one. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me? I’m married now. Or haven’t you heard?” Her moue slid into a grin.
Over Despina’s shoulder, Yasmine walked closer, with an uneasy laugh and a reticent gait. Amidst all the recent confusion, Shahrzad had not even seen the daughter she’d known about—the daughter she’d been expecting.
At least Yasmine has the grace to feel embarrassed.
For Yasmine el-Sharif did seem oddly out of place. Though she looked every bit as stunning as Shahrzad remembered—her mahogany hair a profusion of waves down her back, and her emerald skirt’s gentle sway hinting at the sort of grace no amount of practice could ever perfect—the princess also did not seem to want to take part in this terrible unveiling. She continued glancing over her shoulder as though she meant to flee.
The girl seemed as though she wanted to be anywhere but here.