Mirage (Mirage #1)(11)

“Yes, citizen.” It whirred, and then strode away.

She worked slowly and meticulously, as I stared out at nothing. I had been bleeding for so long that the fabric stuck tight to my wounds. She sponged my shoulder carefully, until finally the dress could be pulled away so she could clean the wounds and wrap them with a glowing white cloth. The cloth was warm and stung, briefly, before sinking into the wounds as though it had never been there at all.

I knew it was not a kindness she did me. She was fixing me so that I could perform my duties, to return to Maram and be punished again. I flinched when her cool fingers touched my chin, and turned my face toward her. Our eyes met.

“It will take some time for the wounds to close,” she said after washing my face. “You may bathe. The bandages will hold. But it would do you good to sleep on your stomach.”

Her hands were covered in my blood. I watched her dip them into a bowl of murky water, watched the bowl grow darker. How many others had she ministered to in this way, I wondered. How many had it taken for her to learn to effect the cool, blank stare? The distance? Would I end up the same way?

“These are your quarters. You have full use of this suite and the courtyard beyond. But you are not to venture past the west gate, understand?”

Our eyes met for the second time. Some emotion slipped across her face and was gone.

“It is a hard lesson,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But it is best learned early. There is no escape from what they want. Only survival.”





6

Morning came to me in starts and whispers. I could hear a soft breeze weave its way through curtains, a door shaking, thin chains trembling. I did not hear the crows or roosters call at dawn, or the pawing of our old goat in her paddock. Nor could I hear my parents moving around downstairs, or my father give the soft call to prayer, a tradition he insisted we maintain despite the danger.

I couldn’t bear to open my eyes or move. My whole body ached, and I was slow to rise out of the nightmare I’d experienced. But if I didn’t rise soon, my mother would come and scold me and remind me that I had agreed to milk the cantankerous goat when we’d bought her. Worse, it was my duty to catch her when she escaped, which seemed likely given her silence so early in the morning.

“Momma,” I groaned. My bed felt like air, and my whole body felt flushed from the warmth trapped beneath the covers.

“Momma,” I said again and forced myself upright, then froze.

It had been no nightmare.

The droid, my wounds, the princess—all real. I was in the capital city, Walili, within the royal palace, the Ziyaana.

My mind went blank with terror. I’d barely survived my first night. How would I fare the next night and the next and the next, never mind what would happen when I took my place as Maram’s body double? I hunched over in my bed, fighting tears.

Someone had already been in my rooms and laid out tea and bread. Hanging on a hook by the entrance to the chambers was a cream-ivory qaftan. I imagined for the wealthy ladies of the Ziyaana it must have seemed plain—what little beadwork there was was constrained around the neck and the edges of the jacket’s sleeves. But it was ornate and detailed, the beads flecked in gold and silver, and the cloth was light and rippled beneath my fingers like water. It was worth more than my family’s farm, I was sure.

I washed and dressed, carefully avoiding my wounds, just in time for Tala to appear, silent as a ghost.

She was dressed in a qaftan similar to mine, though hers was black, the sleeves and lapels of her jacket embroidered in white. She wore a stiff velvet belt in the old style, over gown and jacket both.

“Come,” she said, and gestured to a vanity and a set of cushions. “We have little time, and I must make you presentable.”

I sat warily, and watched as she worked on my hair. She must have been a lady’s maid to a daughter of one of the makhzen who worked in the lower echelons of the new government. Her fingers worked deftly as she oiled and parted my thick, tightly wound curls. I expected her to simply comb out the knots, but instead she wound gold and silver thread into the braids, before tying off the bulk of it into a long braid.

“Earrings,” she commanded, “and a necklace. Here.” She opened a small cabinet and a smaller jewelry box and picked out a pair of gold earrings with dark green stones, and a matching necklace. She set three rings in my hand without comment and waited while I slipped them onto my fingers.

“I think jewelry is the least of my worries,” I said.

She had no reply to that.

*

Tala did not accompany me to Nadine’s courtyard. Yesterday’s droid—Unit 62—escorted me instead. I was not invited to stand after I knelt in greeting to her, and so I remained on my knees, eyes fixed on the cool stone floor. Nadine said nothing; she worked as she had yesterday, methodically and without distraction. It echoed yesterday’s proceedings too well for me not to worry, but I kept my hands steady and my back straight.

The sharp taptaptap of heeled slippers on tile heralded the princess’s arrival.

Maram swept in, a cloud of pink and black fabric rippling behind her. If anyone thought the pink might soften her features, make her seem sweeter or gentler, the black torque of beadwork undid it all. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, unadorned by gold or jewels, and there was a single, enormous bracelet set with a large black stone on her left wrist. She looked furious and wrathful. Her eyes were lined heavily with kohl, and when she turned her gaze to me I lowered mine and held back a shudder.