This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(86)

Alizeh stared at the box, fear moving through her at an alarming speed. She was afraid even to touch the parcel.

Gently, she swallowed. “Did my—my friend—did he give his name?”

“No, miss,” said Deen, who appeared now to be realizing that something was wrong. “Was not my description of the young man enough to engage your memory? He said the whole thing was meant to be a pleasant surprise for you. I confess I thought it seemed . . . great fun.”

“Yes. Of course.” Alizeh forced a laugh. “Yes, thank you. I was only—I’m only shocked, you see. I’m quite unaccustomed to receiving such extravagant gifts, and I fear I know not how to accept them graciously.”

Deen recovered at that, his eyes shining brighter this time. “Yes, of course, miss. I understand completely.”

There was a beat of silence, during which Alizeh pinned a smile onto her face. “When did you say my friend came to deliver the package?”

“Oh, I don’t know exactly,” Deen said, his brow furrowing. “It was sometime in the late morning, I think.”

Late morning.

As if Deen’s description of the stranger weren’t proof enough, Alizeh was now certain the delivery was not made by the prince, who had been at Baz House at exactly that hour. There was only one other person who might’ve done such a thing for her, but for a single complication—

Hazan did not have blue eyes.

It was possible, of course, that the shopkeeper had made a mistake. Perhaps Deen had misspoke, or even seen Hazan in the wrong light. Hazan was tall, after all, that much was accurate; though Alizeh realized she didn’t know enough about him to judge, with any real conviction, whether he was one to wear interesting hats.

Still, it was the answer that made the most sense.

Hazan said he would be looking out for her, did he not? Who else would be paying such close attention to her movements—who else would spare her such generosity?

Alizeh stared again at the beautiful package; at its immaculate presentation. Gingerly, she drew a finger along the scalloped edges of the outer box, the silky yellow ribbon cinching the case around the middle.

Alizeh knew exactly what this was; it was her job to know what it was. Still, it seemed impossible.

“Don’t you want to open it, miss?” Deen was still staring at her. “I admit I’m terribly curious myself.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Yes. Of course.”

A braided thrill of anticipation moved through her—fear and a flutter of excitement—disturbing any semblance of peace her body had recently collected.

With painstaking care, she tugged loose the ribbon, then lifted the heavy lid, releasing a hush of delicate, translucent paper in the process. Deen took the lid from her trembling hands, and Alizeh peered into the box with the wide eyes of a child, discovering, in its depths, an elegant wonder of a gown.

She heard Deen gasp.

At first, all she saw were layers of diaphanous silk chiffon in a shade of pale lavender. She pushed away the wrappings, carefully lifting the gauzy, gossamer article up against the light. The gown was gathered softly down the bodice and cinched at the waist; a long, sheer cape was affixed at the shoulders in place of sleeves. The whisper of a skirt felt like wind in her hands, slipping through her fingers like a soft breeze. It was elegant without ostentation, the perfect balance of all that she required for the evening.

Alizeh thought she might cry.

She would freeze half to death in this gown and she’d not breathe a word of complaint.

“There is a card, miss,” Deen said quietly.

Alizeh looked up at him then, accepting the card from his outstretched hand, which she promptly tucked into her pocket. She’d decided to say her goodbyes to the shopkeeper, to read the note away from his curious eyes, but was stopped by the strange look on his face.

Deen seemed . . . pleased.

She saw there, in the softness of his expression, that he thought her the recipient of a romantic gesture. He had not seen her face in full, she realized, and as a result the apothecarist could only guess at her age. No doubt he assumed Alizeh was a bit older than was accurate, that she was perhaps the mistress of a married nobleman. It was under any other circumstance a deeply unflattering assumption, one that would’ve rendered her, in the eyes of society, a common harlot.

Somehow, Deen did not seem to mind.

“I am not so miserly as to begrudge you your happiness,” he said, reading the confusion in her eyes. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be to live your life.”

Alizeh drew back, she was so surprised.

He could not have been further from the truth and still his sincerity touched her, meant more to her than she could say. In fact, she felt suddenly at a loss for the right words.

“Thank you,” was all she managed.

“I realize we are strangers,” Deen said, gently clearing his throat, “and as a result you might think me odd for saying so—but I’ve felt, from the beginning, a quiet kinship with you, miss.”

“Kinship?” she said, stunned. “With me?”

“Indeed.” He laughed, briefly, but his eyes were dark with some abstruse emotion. “I, too, feel forced to hide who I am from the world. It is a difficult thing, is it not? To worry always how you will be perceived for who you are; to wonder always whether you will be accepted if you are truly yourself?”