This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(28)

“And does not misanthropy indicate a miserliness of spirit, of the human heart?” she was saying. “Loyalty and duty and a general sense of—of awe, perhaps—might induce his royal subjects to overlook such shortcomings, but this generosity serves only to recommend the proletarian, not the prince. It remains rather cowardly then, does it not, to preside over us all as only a mythical figure, never a man?”

The dregs of Deen’s smile evaporated entirely at that, his eyes going cold. It was with a horrible, sinking feeling that Alizeh realized the depth of her mistake—but too late.

“Goodness.” Deen cleared his throat. He no longer seemed able to look at her. “I’ve never heard such talk, least of all from one in a snoda.” He cleared his throat again. “I say. You speak mighty well.”

Alizeh felt herself stiffen.

She’d known better. She’d learned enough times by now not to speak so much, or with such candor. She’d known better, and yet— Deen had shown her compassion, which she mistook for friendship. She swore to herself right then that she would never again make such a mistake, but for now—for now, there was nothing to be done. She could not take back her words.

Fear clenched a fist around her heart.

Would he report her to the magistrates? Accuse her of treason?

Deen inched away from the counter and quietly packaged up her things, but Alizeh could feel his suspicion; could feel it coming off him in waves.

“He’s a decent young man, our prince,” said the shopkeeper curtly. “What’s more: he’s away from home on duty, miss, protecting our lands, not cavorting in the streets. He’s neither a drunk nor a womanizer, which is more than we can say for some.

“Besides, it is not for us to decide whether he’s deserving. We owe our gratitude to anyone who defends our lives with his own. And yes, he keeps to himself, I suppose, but I don’t think a person should be crucified for their silence. It’s a rare thing, is it not? Lord only knows how many there are who would benefit”—Deen looked up at her—“from biting their tongues.”

A shock of heat struck her through the heart then; a shame so potent it nearly cured her of that ever-present chill. Alizeh cast down her gaze, no longer able to meet the man’s eyes.

“Of course,” she said quietly. “I spoke out of turn, sir.”

Deen did not acknowledge this. He was tallying up the total cost of her items with pencil and paper. “Just today,” he said, “just today our prince saved a young beggar’s life—carried the boy off in his arms—”

“You must forgive me, sir. It was my mistake. I do not doubt his heroism—”

“That’ll be six coppers, two tonce, please.”

Alizeh took a deep breath and reached for her coin purse, carefully shaking out the amount owed. Six coppers. Miss Huda had paid her only eight for the gown.

Deen was still talking.

“Some Fesht boy, too—quite merciful to spare him, considering how much trouble we get from the southerners—shock of red hair so bright you could see it from the moon. Who knows why the child did it, but he tried to kill himself in the middle of the street, and our prince saved his life.”

Alizeh startled so badly she dropped half her pay on the floor. Her pulse raced as she scrambled to collect the coins, the thudding of her heart seeming to pound in her head. When she finally placed her payment on the counter, she could scarcely breathe.

“The Fesht boy tried to kill himself?”

Deen nodded, counting out her coin.

“But why? What did the prince do to him?”

Deen looked up sharply. “Do to him?”

“That is, I mean— What did he do to help the boy?”

“Yes, quite right,” Deen said, his expression relaxing. “Well, he picked the boy up in his own arms, didn’t he? And called for help. The good people came running. If it weren’t for the prince, the boy would surely be dead.”

Alizeh felt suddenly ill.

She stared at a glass jar in the corner of the shop, at the large chrysanthemum trapped within. Her hearing seemed to fade in and out.

“—not entirely clear, but some people are saying he’d attacked a servant girl,” Deen was saying. “Put a knife to her neck and cut her throat, not unlike y—”

“Where is he now?” she asked.

“Now?” Deen startled. “I wouldn’t know, miss. I imagine he’s at the palace.”

She frowned. “They took the Fesht boy to the palace?”

“Oh, no, the boy is at the Diviners’ in the Royal Square. No doubt he’ll be there a while.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said quickly. “I’m very grateful for your help.” She drew herself up, forced her mind firmly back into her body, and attempted to be calm. “I’m afraid I must now be on my way.”

Deen said nothing. His eyes went to her throat, to the bandage he’d only just wrapped around her neck.

“Miss,” he said finally, “why is it you do not remove your snoda so late at night?”

Alizeh pretended to misunderstand. She forced out another goodbye and rushed for the exit so quickly she almost forgot her packages, and then ran out the door with such haste she hardly had time to register the change in weather.

She gasped.