Mirage (Mirage #1)(17)

My mother said my brother had once had such a tree, a sapling he’d saved all through the occupation, intending to plant it when it was over and watch it flower to life. But like all our hopes and dreams at the end of the occupation, the sapling had withered and died.

“Amani!”

I jerked my mind back to the present and found Tala standing directly in my line of sight, hands on her hips.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Some time,” she said. “Be quick, if you please. We’re on a schedule.”

“Why?” I asked as I followed her to the bath chamber.

My days had grown predictable of late—the mornings were mine, but in the afternoons I spent much of my time observing Maram’s court, and reviewing lists and notes, focusing on the information I had yet to learn. I was summoned usually in the evening to be tested on the day’s learnings by Nadine, but Maram had lately not bothered with me.

Part of me wondered why, and if our last interaction had kept her away.

Good, I thought with some viciousness.

“They’re giving you a final test before the ball,” Tala said simply, and then, voice softening, “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything more than that.”

I stared at my reflection in the mirror as Tala moved around me, tightening the sash around my waist, arranging the folds of my gown. There was jewelry, too—a large bracelet for my right wrist, and several rings for my left hand.

My hands shook as I followed the droid out of the courtyard. So far my tests had been simple. But I was dressed as Maram today. There would be more at stake.

*

The droid led me toward the north wing of the Ziyaana, where Maram and the king had their quarters. All my training had been done in the abandoned east wing where my chambers lay—home, I had learned, to the queen before she died, and deserted now, shuttered off.

This portion of the palace somehow surpassed the beauty of the old queen’s wing. Gleaming stone walls were carved with arabesque arches and inlaid with bright blue and orange tiles. Many of the walkways opened up onto gardens and courtyards, and birdsong twined with the sound of babbling water. True sunlight streamed through glass ceilings. I was led through porticoes and lovers’ alcoves, passed through clouds of perfume and air filled with the trill of music. Here I could imagine the Ziyaana of old.

At last, the droid opened up a door at the end of a hall onto a rotunda. The air was clear and crisp, bright with the sunlight that poured in from an opening in the dome. The floor was white and smooth, and my footsteps echoed, punctuated by the rush of fabric as my gown swept behind me. Just beneath the opening of the dome sat Maram, and just behind her stood Nadine and another droid.

Maram smirked as I sank to my knees before her dais. She was perfectly arranged in a gown identical to the one I wore, spread around her like a flower. She reached forward and tucked a soft, manicured hand under my chin.

“My,” she said, examining me with a sharp eye. “I could almost believe you were beautiful.”

She rose effortlessly, and gestured me up to the dais.

“Your Highness, how may I serve?” I murmured as I settled down and arranged my skirts. I sounded flippant, even to myself. Part of me felt as though a sliver of my soul had floated up into the ceiling and was watching an exchange between a pair of cruel twins. I marveled at my new ability to remain cool, even as Maram smiled.

“Show me that you can be me, village girl. Show me what you’ve learned.” With those words, Maram stepped out of sight, behind a pillar. Nadine said nothing as the great doors opened to admit a bevy of servants.

The servants set up several wardrobes, a second dais, several mannequins, and a display of fabrics. They arranged themselves like a small souk just in front of the dais. I watched them, a bored expression on my features. Maram, I knew, barely consented to dress in the fusion of Kushaila and Vathek attire she often wore—a reminder she was the link between regimes, between cultures. Every fitting was a struggle.

I sighed, the picture of irritation, when the head seamstress dropped a spool of fabric and it rolled toward my dais. Her face paled visibly, and she froze, as if unsure if she should come forward to collect the mess or leave it as it was. She was old, and I imagined she had dropped the spool because of her shaking hands.

“Well,” I snapped as Maram so often did, “are you running a zoo or do you expect me to pick it up?”

“N-no,” she stammered. “I—I mean, yes, of course, Your Highness.”

“I don’t see why this is necessary,” I said, looking at Nadine.

“The seamstress has new fabric she’d like you to approve for the winter gowns,” Nadine replied, the corner of her mouth twitching.

My own mouth stayed in a grim line. I did not find the humor in the situation; what would happen if they discovered me to be a fraud?

“You set up a dais for me to merely approve fabric,” I said, my voice cool.

“We also have a new gown for you,” the head seamstress piped up, speaking out of turn.

My back stiffened, Maram’s rage radiating out of me. I turned my gaze to the head seamstress and watched her turn pale. She was more than three times my age, older than Nadine even, and yet she sank to her knees before me, her knuckles white in the folds of her gown.

“How many seamstresses do we have?” I said without breaking my gaze.