This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(79)

She stared at him, her heart beating in her throat. “Surely you must see,” she said. “There exists no bridge between our lives; no path that connects our worlds.”

“How can that matter? Is this not one day to be my empire, to rule as I see fit? I will build a bridge. I can clear a path. Or do you not think me capable?”

“Don’t say things now that you cannot mean. We are neither of us in our right minds—”

“I grow tired,” he said, trying to breathe, “of being in my right mind. I much prefer this kind of madness.”

Alizeh gripped with both hands the handle of her carpet bag and took a nervous step back. “You should not— You should not say such things to me—”

He drew closer. “Do you know I am meant to choose a bride tonight?”

Alizeh was surprised by her own shock at that, by the vague nausea that struck her. She felt suddenly ill.

Confused.

“I am meant to marry a complete stranger,” he was saying. “A candidate chosen by others to be my wife—to one day be my queen—”

“Then—then I offer my congratulations—”

“I beg you do not.” He was in front of her now, one hand reaching out, as if he might touch her. She couldn’t breathe for not knowing whether he might, then couldn’t breathe when he finally did, when the tips of his fingers grazed her hip, then up, up the curve of her bodice, trembling slightly as they drew away.

“Will you not give me hope?” he whispered. “Tell me I will see you again. Ask me to wait for you.”

“How can you even say such things when you know the consequences would be dire— Your people will think you’ve gone mad—your own king will forsake you—”

Incredibly, Kamran laughed, but it sounded angry. “Yes,” he said softly. “My own king will forsake me.”

“Kamran—”

He stepped forward and she gasped, took another step backward.

“You must—you must know,” Alizeh said, her voice unsteady. “I must tell you now how grateful I am for what you did today—for trying to protect me. I am in your debt, sire, and I will not soon forget it.”

She saw the change in his expression then, the dawning realization there that she would really leave, that this was how they’d part.

“Alizeh,” he said, his eyes bright with pain. “Please— Don’t—”

Then, she was gone.





Twenty-Nine





KAMRAN CHASED AFTER HER, RACING down the stairs like a fool, as if he could ever catch up to a ghost, as if even finding her would be enough. How the prince managed in his mind to reconcile his desire for the girl and his loyalty to his king he did not know, but even as his better sense condemned him for his dissidence, he could not deny the terrifying feelings taking root inside him. His actions were both treacherous and futile, and still he could not stop himself; could not calm the pounding of his heart nor the madness that gripped him.

He had to see her—to speak with her just once more—

“Where on earth have you been, child?”

Kamran came to a sharp, disorienting halt on the landing, his mind returning to his body with the force of a thunderclap.

His aunt was staring up at him from just steps below, one hand clutching her skirts, the other gripping the banister. They were standing but two flights above the main floor, but he saw—in the light sheen at her brow, in the sharp creasing of her forehead—just how much it had cost the older woman to seek him out.

Kamran slowed.

Fatigue hit him as suddenly as if he’d been struck by a physical blow, and he grabbed the banister, steadying himself against the assault.

He closed his eyes.

“Forgive me,” he said, quietly catching his breath. “I lost track of time.”

He heard his aunt make a tsk of disapproval, and opened his eyes to see that she was looking him over, scrutinizing his hair, his eyes—even the sleeves of his sweater, which he’d at some point pulled up his forearms. Quietly, Kamran put himself to rights, running an absent hand over his hair, pushing the black waves out of his eyes.

It scared him to realize how easily his heart and mind had parted.

Duchess Jamilah pursed her lips and held out her hand, and Kamran quickly closed the distance between them, tucking her delicate fingers into the crook of his elbow. Carefully, he helped the older woman walk back down the stairs.

“So,” she said. “You say you lost track of time.”

Kamran made a noncommittal sound.

“I see.” His aunt sighed. “You seem to have done a thorough job wandering the house, in any case. The servants are all in a dither over your brooding. First the street boy, then the snoda, now you’re mooning about the house, staring longingly out of windows. They all think you a tragic, hopeless romantic, and I’ll be surprised if all their gossip doesn’t earn you a few inches in the paper tomorrow.” She hesitated on a step; glanced up at him. “Take care, child. The younger girls might begin to swoon at the mere sight of you.”

Kamran forced a smile. “You have a gift, dear aunt. Your flattery is always the most elaborate fiction.”

She gave a rasp of a laugh. “You think I exaggerate?”

“I think you enjoy exaggerating.”