This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(27)

She said nothing.

Deen sighed. “If you would only remove your snoda, miss, I might inspect the damage for you.”

“No,” Alizeh said too quickly. “That is— I thank you for your concern, but I’m quite all right.”

It was a long while before Deen said quietly, “Very well. But when I am done, I ask that you come back in one week so that I might check for signs of improvement or infection.”

“Yes, sir.” She hesitated. “I mean, Deen, sir.”

He smiled. “If, however, you develop a fever in the interim, you must send for a surgeon at once.”

To this, Alizeh merely nodded. Even with five dresses worth of income she knew she’d not be able to afford a surgeon, but did not see the point in expressing so.

Deen was winding a narrow bandage around her neck—precisely the sort of spectacle she’d been trying to avoid—when he made one last attempt at conversation. “This is an interesting wound, miss,” he said. “More interesting for all the conflicting stories we’ve been hearing in town today.”

Alizeh stiffened.

She knew, objectively, that she’d done nothing wrong, but Alizeh lived in this city only because she’d had to escape her own attempted execution. It was seldom, if ever, that she stopped worrying. “Which conflicting stories, sir?”

“Stories of the prince, of course.”

Almost at once, Alizeh relaxed. “Oh,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve heard any.”

Deen was pinning her bandage in place when he laughed. “With all due respect, miss, you’d have to be deaf not to have heard. The whole of the empire is discussing the prince’s return to Setar.”

“He’s come back?” Beneath her snoda, Alizeh’s eyes widened. She, who was new to the city, had heard only rumors about the empire’s elusive heir. Those who lived in Setar lived in the royal heart of Ardunia; its lifelong residents had seen the prince in his infancy, had watched him grow. Alizeh would be lying if she said she wasn’t curious about the royals, but she was far from obsessed, the way some were.

Just then—in a flash of understanding—the day’s events made sense.

The festivities Mrs. Sana had mentioned—the impending ball. It was no wonder Miss Huda needed five new gowns. Of course Duchess Jamilah had demanded every one of her rooms be cleaned. She was a distant cousin of the king, and it was rumored she had a close relationship with the prince.

Perhaps she was expecting a visit.

“Indeed, he is come home,” Deen was saying. “And no small thing either, is it? Already they’re planning a ball, and no fewer than a dozen festivities. Of course”—he grinned—“not that the likes of us should care. I don’t expect we’ll be seeing the inside of a palace ballroom anytime soon.”

Alizeh matched Deen’s smile with one of her own. She’d often longed for moments like these—opportunities to speak with people in her own city, as if she were one of them. She’d never felt free to do so, not even as a child.

“No, I expect not,” she said softly, still smiling as she sat back in her seat, absently touching the fresh bandage at her neck. She felt so much better already, and the flood of relief and gratitude was loosening her tongue to an unfamiliar degree. “Though I’m not sure I understand all the excitement, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh?” Deen’s smile grew broader. “And why’s that?”

Alizeh hesitated.

There was always so much she wanted to say, but she’d been forbidden—over and over—from speaking her mind, and she struggled now to overcome that impulse.

“I suppose— I suppose I would ask why the prince should be so lavishly celebrated merely for arriving home. Why is it that we never ask who pays for these festivities?”

“Begging your pardon, miss.” Deen laughed. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning.”

Alizeh thawed a bit at the sound of his laughter, and her own smile grew wider. “Well. Do not the taxes paid by common folk fund the royal parties they’re not even allowed to attend?”

Deen, who was rewinding a roll of linen, went suddenly still. He looked up at Alizeh, his expression inscrutable.

“The prince never even shows his face,” she went on. “What kind of prince does not mix with his own society? He is praised—and well liked, yes—but only on account of his noble birth, his inheritance, his circumstances, his inevitable ascent to king.”

Deen frowned a bit. “I suppose—perhaps.”

“On what merit, then, is he celebrated? Why should he be entitled to the love and devotion of a public that does not even know him? Does not his distaste of the common people reek of arrogance? Does not this arrogance offend?”

“I do not know, miss.” Deen faltered. “Though I daresay our prince is not arrogant.”

“Pretentious, then? Misanthropic?”

Alizeh couldn’t seem to stop talking now that she’d started. It should’ve worried her that she was having so much fun; it should’ve reminded her to bite her tongue. But it had been so long since she’d had a single conversation with someone, and Alizeh, who was demanded always to deny her own intelligence, had grown tired of keeping her mouth shut. The thing was, she was good at talking, and she dearly missed that exchange of wits that exercised the mind.