Girl, Serpent, Thorn(3)

With her gloves safely on, Soraya came forward to accept her mother’s gifts, stopping a few steps away from her. “Thank you, Maman,” she said, gently taking the potted rose. There was only a hint of green within the packed soil, just as Soraya preferred. She liked to see the roses bloom for the first time in her garden, by her hand. It was proof that she could nurture as well as destroy.

“I hope your journey wasn’t too tiring,” Soraya called over her shoulder as she found a temporary home for the potted rose until she could plant it. She hadn’t had a conversation with anyone in so long that words felt clumsy on her tongue. Their greetings were always stiff and formal, since neither of them could embrace the other, but Soraya had seen the warmth in her mother’s eyes, in the crinkle of her smile, and she hoped her own face showed the same.

“Not at all,” Tahmineh answered. “Here,” she said, holding the book out. “Stories from Hellea,” she said, “since I think you already know every Atashari story that’s ever been told by now.”

Soraya took the book and leafed through the illustrated pages as her mother started to walk along the edge of the golestan. “These are beautiful,” Tahmineh murmured to the climbing roses on the wall, and Soraya silently beamed with pride. She could never shine as brightly as her brother did, but she could still make her mother smile.

“There were more people in the procession today than usual,” Soraya said, her tongue starting to loosen. “Are they all coming for Nog Roz?”

Tahmineh froze, her back so straight and still that she resembled a statue. “Not only for Nog Roz,” she said at last. “Let’s go inside, Soraya joonam. I have something to tell you.”

Soraya swallowed, her fingertips cold even inside her gloves. She moved aside from the doors for her mother to enter first and then followed, still clutching the book in her hands.

She had nothing to offer her mother, no wine or fruit or anything else. Servants brought food to Soraya’s room three times a day, leaving a tray behind the door for her. People knew the shah had a reclusive sister, and perhaps they all had their own theories as to why she hid away, but none of them knew the truth, and it was Soraya’s duty to keep it that way.

The room was certainly comfortable, however. There were cushions everywhere—on the bed, on the chair, on the window seat, some on the floor—all with different textures, made from different fabrics. Overlapping rugs spread out across the entire floor, their vibrant colors a little worn from time. Every surface was covered with something soft, as though she could somehow make up for the lack of touch by surrounding herself with these artificial substitutes. Throughout the room were glass vases holding wilting roses from her garden, filling the room with the earthy smell of dying flowers.

There was only one chair in the room, and so Tahmineh sat on one end of the window seat. Soraya placed herself carefully at the other end, her hands folded in her lap, her knees held together, taking up as little room as possible so that her mother would feel comfortable.

But her mother looked anything but comfortable. She was avoiding Soraya’s eyes, her hands fidgeting in her lap. Finally, she took a breath, looked up, and said, “The reason we have so many visitors is that your brother is going to be married next month.”

“Oh,” Soraya said with some surprise. From her mother’s demeanor, she had expected to hear about a funeral rather than a wedding. She had known Sorush would likely marry sooner or later. Did her mother think she would be jealous?

“The bride is Laleh,” her mother added.

“Oh,” Soraya said again, her tone flat this time. It made sense, she told herself. Laleh was the spahbed’s daughter, as kindhearted as she was beautiful. She deserved to become the most loved and influential woman in Atashar. Anyone would—should—be happy for her.

There was a loose thread on the edge of Soraya’s sleeve. She took it between her finger and her thumb and pulled, watching the fabric slowly unravel. Her pulse was quickening with emotions she didn’t want to have or name. Soraya took some slow breaths, the loose thread now wrapped several times around her gloved fingers. She wouldn’t let bitterness or resentment overtake her. She wouldn’t let them show on her face. Soraya took a breath, unwound the thread from her fingers, and looked up at her mother with a smile.

“They’re a good match,” Soraya said.

Her mother’s smile was warm and genuine—and relieved. “I think so too,” she said softly. Her smile faltered, her eyes flitting downward. “I may not have as much time to spend with you until after the wedding. It will be a busy time.”

Soraya swallowed down the lump in her throat. “I understand,” she said. The world would move on without her, as it always had.

“You know I love you.”

Soraya nodded. “I love you too, Maman.”

They continued to share pleasantries and bits of court gossip, but it was a mostly one-sided conversation. Soraya was too occupied with trying to control her emotions, sneaking glances down to make sure the light brown skin of her wrists was unmarred. By the time Tahmineh left, Soraya was exhausted from the effort.

Alone again, Soraya returned to the golestan to plant the rose her mother had given her. She ripped off her gloves, ignoring the lines of green that were spreading down her arms, and tried to let the sight of her roses soothe her. She cupped one of them in her palms and brought her face close to it, inhaling the scent as she let the edge of the petals brush along her cheek. So soft, as soft as a kiss—or so she imagined. She let her hands drift down to the stem, pressing the tip of her finger against one of the thorns, and that too was a comfort—knowing that something dangerous could also be beautiful and cherished.