Chapter 39
A routine was set for us by the maidens—Pouran (Red Lapels) and Mariya (Green Lapels).
We were woken for breakfast in our bedrooms and locked in those rooms until dinner, when we were made up to eat with our demonic grandfather, who drank and talked nonsense.
Both women avoided speaking to us if they could help it.
When we returned from dinner that first night, the door adjoining Azar’s and my room was simply taken away. It didn’t fill either of us with hope that no one felt threatened at the prospect of us being locked up together.
That first night, though, a book was placed atop my bed. It was leather-bound, a deep green, and when I flicked through the pages, I realized it was a notebook. Azar peered over my shoulder at it.
“The writing’s in Farsi,” she murmured, flicking to a random page and reading it aloud.
“I need to leave. These walls are too oppressive. I took the offer to come here out of desperation, but it was a mistake. I have only ever wanted a normal life. The kind of life Zahhak sneers at.
He says we are the chosen ones, but this royal spirit amounts to very little, though we are not allowed to say that.
If we say what the civilians are thinking, deep down, it could result in a revolution.
The rebels already killed my parents. Would I want my head on a platter?
No. I am not a revolutionary to that degree.
I have planned my escape. It is not foolproof, but these things rarely are.
My maidens are on my side. They are good women, and I have given them enough gold to bribe them to help me, even if they are not.
I have learned by now that even the people you thought you could trust the most can betray you. ”
“Is this…” I began.
“Mum’s diary,” Azar said quietly, flicking through the pages. “Yes, I think so.”
I cursed myself for not being able to read Farsi, for not being able to read her account in her own words.
“Who would leave this here?” Azar asked.
“Pouran,” I said. “I think she wants us to know who Mum was; she knew her.”
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about my mum.
I hadn’t allowed myself to really sit with the fact that she was a jinn, that she had withheld such a big part of herself from us, that she had, in effect, lived a double life.
My mum, the creative, the painter, who snorted when she laughed and had a penchant for Turkish dramas, was a jinn.
She had tried to protect me from the div—but, in the same way, had tried to separate me from Zain.
What would she think about the fact that I was almost certain I had already fallen for him?
I pushed the realization that she would be disappointed in me from my mind, because I was disappointed in her for keeping all this from us.
And Zain. It hurt to think of him. Even more, that I could be married off to an evil jinn. I tried to push those thoughts aside, too.
I didn’t experience sleep paralysis in the days that followed; I suspected because the source had direct contact with me.
However, I still had nightmares. Though not of my past selves or the ways they died.
Those dreams were notably absent. Instead, I saw the faces of the woman and the man I’d killed.
I replayed that moment over and over—when I thought I might die, trapped in the bathroom stall.
When the gun was lifted into the air. Sometimes they managed to shoot me, and I lay bloodied on the floor, struggling to breathe.
Other times I hovered over them, my hands pressed to their chests.
I could feel their raw flesh beneath my palms, their pulsing hearts as I pressed deeper and deeper.
I woke up gasping, my body soaked in sweat. Bile rose in my throat.
The first night, I ran to the adjoining bathroom and was sick three times.
I had eaten so little that day that not much came out, mainly liquid.
I didn’t hear Azar wake up, but she held my hair back.
When I was finished and had rested my hands on the toilet seat, unable to lift myself up, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shook my head. She didn’t press, and for that I was glad.
The following evening, Zahhak gave more details about my arranged marriage.
It was due to occur in a week’s time, during the Night of Fire.
A holiday in the Underworld in which for one day they celebrated, and engaged in, their base needs.
They celebrated fire, jumping over flames for luck—and sacrificed a human life for their goodwill.
It was not to be mistaken for Chaharshanbe Suri, the Iranian festival around Iranian New Year in which people jumped over fire to cleanse themselves.
Zahhak did make a comment that Chaharshanbe Suri was inspired by the Night of Fire, however, to offset the evil of the Underworld holiday.
“Of course we will need to find an appropriate human sacrifice specifically for the wedding, perhaps a virgin,” Zahhak said with a wink, sloshing back the wineglass filled with blood.
We had heard of goats being killed for good luck in Iran at weddings, which I thought was bad enough, but a human life…
The blood he drank dribbled down onto his tunic.
Azar had a theory about the blood: Rather than it being a preference, Zahhak required it to remain strong, considering he was hundreds of years old by now.
I wasn’t sure, though. He seemed unhinged enough to enjoy it for all the pain it represented.
His whimsical nature disturbed me most. He didn’t take anything seriously, not our entrapment, or the forced wedding, or the hundreds of thousands he had killed.
He did not get his hands, or mind, dirty with any of it.
After the second night, we realized we would not be listened to.
The women were rough as they set to work and dodged our questions.
Azar always attempted to speak with Mariya and was met with grunts or one-word answers.
My sister and I were different, though, and for the first couple of nights, I couldn’t muster more than a few words to my maiden.
On the third night, though, while Pouran unpinned my hair, I asked her, “How did you know my mum?”
I felt her hands still against the back of my neck, only for a second, before she continued her work.
“She lived here, albeit briefly,” she said, her voice quiet, barely perceptible.
Sitting on my dressing chair, I turned to look at her. Pouran’s face was usually devoid of emotion, but there was a tightness to her eyes that was different. Her skin was smooth, unblemished by sun the Underworld was lacking.
“Here? Why would she have lived here?”
“Her family was murdered. The Jinn King offered her sanctuary. I’ll say no more about it.”
Our mother had always told us that her parents had died in a house fire when she was younger.
She rarely spoke about them, and we thought it was because she preferred not to, the pain of losing both parents at the same time too much to put into words, even many years later. Maybe there was some truth in that.
“What was she like?” I asked. “Back then.”
“I imagine the same as when you knew her.”
My brows furrowed at that. “Surely not—she had this whole other life.”
Pouran began brushing my hair, her touch rough as she yanked the comb through the tangled knots.
“I just want to know her,” I found myself saying, not intending sadness to color my tone quite as much as it did. “If we’re going to be living the life she didn’t want.”
I could smell the oil Pouran put on the ends of my hair before braiding it down my back. I thought that would be all, until she said, “She was creative and kind.”
I let the words settle, the tightness in my chest easing just a bit at the idea of my mum not being so different in this world than she was in mine.
“Did you leave the diary out for us?” I asked.
In the other room, Azar’s voice had risen as she pleaded for Mariya to let us out. I should have been doing the same, but with each passing day, my curiosity about my mother, about this life of hers that we were now inhabiting, grew.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, speedily crossing the room to leave.
Mariya left soon after. Azar came into my room in the long nightgown they’d provided each of us with, her hair and face shiny.
We were surprisingly well-kept royal prisoners, a little like royalty back in England.
“Any luck?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“No, she’s tight-lipped. They’re both prisoners here themselves, so you’d think they’d have some sympathy,” Azar said.
“Really?”
“Mum mentions Pouran in her diary.” Azar moved over to my bed, lifting the mattress and retrieving the leather-bound book. She showed me a page and began reading from it.
“Pouran hates Zahhak as much as I do. Though she hasn’t said as much, he ruined her life. She is a prisoner in this palace, given to Zahhak by her family. A gift to keep him on their side. We have more in common than one would think,” Azar read.
“What else did she say about her?”
“Sometimes Pouran and I play card games in the servants’ quarters.
She always beats me. I joke that she’s cheating, and she takes it too seriously, swearing on Shaitan that she wouldn’t do such a thing.
I think of Pouran, how much I will miss her, when I consider my escape.
I had tried suggesting to her that she join me, but I was too afraid she would tell Zahhak and the other servants.
I can’t trust anyone, not after the servants in my own house killed my parents.
I thought they were my friends too,” Azar read.
“She also talks about how she and Pouran learned to embroider together, that they created huge tapestries. She goes on about the technicalities of it; you know Mum.”
I smiled at that.