Mirage (Mirage #1)(64)

I knew if Maram had a chance, if she gave her mother’s family a chance, they would love her. And their love and her hope might shape her into a queen the Andalaans didn’t have to fear or hate.

“Change takes bravery, yabnati,” she said, quietly enough that those around us couldn’t hear. “You are brave. Like your mother. I can see that. Visit more often.”

I nodded in response to her request and at last she let me go. I returned to my seat, heart pounding, but could feel her eyes on me for the rest of the evening. When I looked up there was a strange turn to her gaze—fixed and nearly hopeful, as if she were looking at someone altogether different. As if she were seeing Najat instead of Maram, and it gave her hope.

*

The party seemed to last an eternity. Khaltou Naimah kept me on the platform with her, and when she got tired of speaking in Vathekaar, enlisted the younger girl beside me to translate Kushaila. It was strange to pretend I didn’t understand while I was being spoken to. I caught myself at least once, mouth open, before she’d finished speaking and had to bite my tongue. By the time I was free to return to the suites I shared with Idris, I felt as though I’d been wrung dry.

Idris stood in front of the large window in the sitting area, outlined by the glow of the setting sun.

“Where did you get off to?” I asked, closing the door behind me. “Your aunt kept a close watch on me the whole party.”

He laughed a little. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to abandon you to her.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I teased, and laid a hand on his arm.

“Oh,” he said, and I frowned.

“Are you alright?”

“I went to the mausoleum,” he said after a moment. “My parents and siblings are buried there.”

I paused. He’d never spoken of his siblings—all I knew about them I’d heard from Tala when she’d told me about the night of the Purge. “Idris—”

At last he looked at me and gave me a faint smile. “It was easier this year,” he said. His hand came to rest on mine. “It’s never easy, but—it was easier this year. With you here.”

I smiled. “How are your cousins?”

“As well as they can be.” He let go of my hand. “The younger ones keep asking when I’ll stay for good.”

There was nothing I could say to that. Not that perhaps one day he might be able to, to be certain. I imagined for Idris such a future didn’t exist. Instead, I kissed his cheek, then went to take off my jewelry and change into something more comfortable. When I returned, Idris had shed his jacket and shoes, and was sitting in an alcove by the window. There was a slender folio volume beside him.

“I found this,” he said when I sat next to him. “Ever since you corrected my horrible translation I’ve been thinking of this. I want you to have it.”

I stared blankly at the volume he held out to me. I could see it was in Kushaila from the writing on the spine, and that it was very old, too. Nearly as old as the folio Husnain had given me so many months ago.

“It was my mother’s,” Idris added.

My eyes jerked up to meet his. “What?”

I couldn’t take it. He knew I couldn’t keep something that belonged to his mother. No matter how much I wanted it, no matter how much it meant to him or the both of us. Idris didn’t know about the folio Husnain gave me on my majority night; he couldn’t guess how much I would cherish a second volume of poetry.

“What is it?” I found myself asking.

He grinned. “A collection of Kushaila poetry. She and my father loved to read it to one another.”

“Idris,” I breathed, and reached out for it. I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. It was dangerous to have, tangible proof of what Idris and I felt for one another.

“Furat said that you must love the old poetry if you knew it, that it’s … it’s hard to come by now.”

I tore my eyes away from the cover and looked at him. He was grinning, and he watched me as if seeing how much I wanted the folio gave him joy. As if my happiness made him happy.

“You can’t give me this,” I tried again.

“It’s a gift,” he replied and folded my hands over it. “It would be rude to refuse.”

I kissed him, furtive and quick, then pulled the book against my chest. His grin widened and he bent his head to mine and pressed a firmer kiss against my mouth.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“May it bring you much joy, Amani.”

*

The next morning we went down to the stables where two horses were waiting for us. I ignored his look of surprise when I pulled myself up into the saddle, bypassing his outstretched hand.

“You’re full of surprises,” he told me, getting on his own horse.

“Hardly,” I replied, and smiled. “How do you think I got around before the Ziyaana?”

There were no guards, though I’d seen him pack a phaser. He led us through the city, and then past its limits into the desert. I’d never seen pictures of Al Hoceima before the occupation, so I had nothing to compare it against, but I could imagine its splendor. The high walls of the city still stood with its four gates, though they were run-down and covered in desert sand. In the center of the city was not the Salihi stronghold, but the Dihyan temple and its zaouia. The streets were narrow and tight, and I couldn’t imagine trying to get a carriage through them. Wherever I looked was evidence that the city had stood for at least a thousand years and meant to stand for a thousand more. Faded mosaic tiles inlaid in entryways, empty fountains engraved with desert flowers in the style of antiquity, and so on.