This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(14)

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Mrs. Amina barked at her, startling Alizeh nearly to death. The housekeeper grabbed Alizeh by the scruff of her neck and shoved her into the adjoining hall. “You forget yourself, girl. You don’t eat with the other servants.”

“I was— I was only waiting,” Alizeh said, wincing as her fingers fluttered around her neck, gently pulling her collar back into place. The cut at her throat was still tender, and Alizeh had not wanted to draw attention to herself by wrapping it. She felt the telltale moisture of what could only be fresh blood, and clenched her fists to keep from touching the wound. “Forgive me, ma’am. I never meant to be impertinent. I was only awaiting your instruction.”

It happened so fast Alizeh didn’t even realize Mrs. Amina had slapped her until she felt the pain in her teeth, saw the flash of light behind her eyes. Too late Alizeh flinched and shrank back, her ears ringing, hands grasping for purchase against the stone wall. She’d made too many mistakes today.

“What did I tell you about that mouth of yours?” Mrs. Amina was saying. “You want this position, you will learn your place.” She made a sound of disgust. “I told you to rid yourself of that absurd accent. Impertinent,” she scoffed. “Where you even learned to talk like that—”

Alizeh felt the change when Mrs. Amina cut herself off, watched her eyes darken with suspicion.

Alizeh swallowed.

“Where did you learn to talk like that?” Mrs. Amina asked quietly. “Knowing your letters is one thing, but you begin to strike me as a bit too high in the instep for a scullery girl.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” Alizeh said, lowering her eyes. She tasted blood in her mouth. Already her face was tender; she resisted the impulse to touch what was no doubt a purpling bruise. “I beg your pardon.”

“Who taught you to read, then?” Mrs. Amina rounded on her. “Who taught you to put on airs?”

“Forgive me, ma’am.” Alizeh flinched, forced herself to talk slowly. “I don’t mean to put on airs, ma’am, it’s only that I don’t know how else to spe—”

Mrs. Amina looked up then, distracted by the sight of the clock, and the fight went out of her eyes. They’d lost precious minutes of the workday already, and Alizeh knew they could not afford to lose more to this conversation.

Still, Mrs. Amina stepped closer.

“Speak to me like you’re some fancy toff one more time and not only will you see the back of my hand, girl, you’ll be back on the street.”

Alizeh felt suddenly ill.

If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the rough stone of the cold, vermin-infested alley pressed against her cheek; she could still hear the sounds of the sewer lulling her into unconsciousness for minutes at a time—the longest she’d ever dared to keep her eyes closed on the street. Alizeh sometimes thought she’d rather run in front of a carriage than return to such darkness.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said softly, her pulse racing. “Forgive me, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

“Enough of your pompous apologies,” Mrs. Amina snapped. “Her ladyship is in a frightful state today, and wants every room scrubbed and polished as if the king himself were coming to visit.”

Alizeh dared to look up.

Baz House had seven floors, and 116 individual rooms. Alizeh wanted more than anything to ask: Why? Why every room? Instead, she held her tongue, grieving quietly. Scrubbing all 116 in one day, she knew, would leave her body in ribbons.

“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered.

Mrs. Amina hesitated.

Alizeh could see then that Mrs. Amina was not such a monster that she wouldn’t acknowledge the near impossibility of this demand. The housekeeper’s tone softened a bit when she said: “The others will help, of course—but they have their regular duties to attend to as well, you understand? The bulk of the work will be yours.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do this well, girl, and I will see about hiring you on permanently. But I make no promises”—Mrs. Amina lifted a finger, then pointed it at Alizeh—“if you don’t learn to keep that mouth shut.”

Alizeh took a sharp breath. And nodded.





Seven





KAMRAN HAD ONLY JUST ENTERED the antechamber leading to his grandfather’s rooms when he felt it: a breath of movement. There was a glimmer of unnaturally refracted light along the walls, a hint of perfume in the air. Kamran purposely slowed his stride, for he knew his predator would not resist such an easy mark.

There.

A flutter of skirts.

Not a moment too soon, Kamran had clamped a hand over his assailant’s fist, her fingers clenched around the hilt of a ruby dagger, which she held happily at his throat.

“I tire of this game, Mother.”

She twisted out of reach and laughed, her dark eyes gleaming. “Oh, darling, I never do.”

Kamran watched his mother with an impassive expression; she was so covered in jewels she glittered even standing still. “You find it diverting,” he said, “to play at murdering your own child?”

She laughed again and spun around him, velvet skirts shimmering. Her Royal Highness Firuzeh, the princess of Ardunia, was empyreal in her beauty—but then, this was not such an extraordinary accomplishment for a princess. Loveliness was to be expected of any royal who aspired to the throne, and it was no secret that Firuzeh resented the untimely death of her husband, who seven years ago had lost his head in a senseless battle and had left her forever a princess, never a queen.