Chapter 26
Sonya cried herself to sleep after the ball and woke up with a puffy face. Elspeth spent half an hour pressing a cold cloth to her face. Sonya held her wrist, calmed by Elspeth’s presence.
She didn’t know what to do with herself, her heart hurt so very much. But she had a busy schedule; there was no time to wallow. Every hour of the day was packed with various activities and private time with each of the suitors.
Sonya put on a brave face, going through with all of it.
The day passed in a blur. Each man was nice, with good qualities, but she had no idea how she was meant to pick one to spend the rest of her life with. Why couldn’t it have been easy?
That night, after dinner, she and her brothers sat with her father in his room, drinking kahwa. The minty green tea was soothing after a long day, and she was in her nightgown with a thick robe on top, her hair mercifully down.
As Sonya sipped her tea, she looked at her father, considering that perhaps she would simply let him decide, the way she always did. But a voice inside of her roared to life, protesting. She could not go back to the way she was. She was different now.
‘How did the day go?’ Shahmir asked, face kind. Her brothers had been more attentive now that she had spoken up, and she did appreciate that. It wasn’t fair of her to write them off as villains when she’d never told them how she felt, she saw that now.
‘Whose horse is winning the race?’ Irfan asked, tone teasing.
She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Surely you ought not to refer to them as horses.’
‘It seems apt to me,’ Mustafa agreed.
‘Well, there is no rush,’ her father said. ‘You still have a few weeks. You don’t need to decide until ten days before your birthday. A ten-day engagement is very reasonable. Why, your mother and I—’ He cut off, eyes wide.
‘What?’ she asked, sitting up. She was desperate to hear more.
Her father cleared his throat. ‘No, nothing.’
While she had resigned herself to an arranged marriage, that did not mean other things could remain as they were. ‘I still want to know more about my mother,’ she said, voice sure and strong. ‘We should talk about her, remember her.’
She recalled how Kiri spoke of her late husband, even how Azam spoke of his parents. They honored the memory of the dead by remembering them.
The king set his teacup down with a clink, upset. Her brothers glanced between the pair of them.
‘Sonya, that’s enough,’ Shahmir said, voice gentle. He didn’t wish to see his father upset, which Sonya understood.
‘It’s okay to be sad, Baba,’ she said, voice breaking.
Her eyes welled with tears. ‘It just means that you loved her. How can that be a bad thing?’ The king looked at her, stunned.
His expression softened as she continued, ‘If you never allow yourself to feel any pain, how can you remember her? How can any of us?’
They were all silent, absorbing her words. Sonya held her breath, waiting to be shut down again.
But then Irfan spoke. ‘She’s right,’ he said. They all looked at him, and Sonya gave him a small smile. Her brother nodded at her. ‘Of course it hurts, but I don’t think that should stop us from remembering her.’
‘She does have a point,’ Mustafa agreed. ‘All the best stories are revisited, remembered. And we all have memories; it’s only Sonya who doesn’t.’
Shahmir nodded, as well, understanding. ‘Baba, we have to be Sonya’s memory. Mama would have wanted Sonya to know her.’
Their father’s mustache trembled, his eyes glistening. ‘If that’s what you all want,’ he said, trying to keep his voice strong.
Sonya heard it waver—they all did. But: ‘Please,’ Sonya said now, her own eyes filled with tears.
Her father nodded and ran a hand over his face, releasing a long breath as he searched for the words.
‘Your mother and I were engaged for only a week before we were wed,’ he said, and a faint smile twitched his lips.
‘I only knew her for a few days at that point, but right away I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.’
He broke off, crying now, and Sonya’s heart broke.
‘Oh, Baba!’ She ran to her father’s side, hugging him.
‘I miss her so desperately,’ he said, holding on to her. Her brothers crowded around.
‘We miss her, too,’ Shahmir said, and Sonya saw his eyes were glassy with tears.
‘We all miss her,’ Mustafa agreed.
The king wiped his eyes. ‘I was afraid of this for so long,’ he said, trying to compose himself. ‘I am your father, and I did not wish for you to see me in such a weak state, but … perhaps it isn’t so bad.’
‘You aren’t weak, Baba,’ Sonya said, and her brothers agreed.
He smiled, touching her cheek. ‘I am sure you will be just as happy with your chosen partner as I was with your mother.’
Sonya hoped so, but at the same time, her heart sank with dread. She took a deep breath. She needed to put in more effort with the suitors so she could make the right choice. She was taking charge of her life and her destiny, and she was going to make it the best she could.
She was determined.
A week passed with endless luncheons and tea parties and walks, and events for each suitor to try and impress her. Jousting matches and croquet and hunting and racing—they were all skilled, all impressive, each of them winning at different things.
Then, she had private time with each of them: horseback riding with the duke’s son, a game of cards with the earl, and a visit to the library with the marquess’s son. Each day she had a brand-new outfit, meticulously and gorgeously made, perfect for a princess, but not perfect for her.
Azam felt further and further away, so different from the man she knew, the man she loved, yet she caught glimmers of the old Azam now and again, and it made her ache.
He kept himself distant from her, still hardly meeting her gaze, but she felt him watching when she wasn’t looking, and she felt his presence keenly.
They did not speak, but he was always there in the background, in case of any wardrobe mishaps.
Sonya tried desperately not to look at him, not to think of him, but it was impossible and painful, like pulling out tiny shards of glass embedded in her skin and no matter how many she pulled out, there were still others left.
At least she was bonding with her brothers and father; she learned more about her mother. They were all trying, which she appreciated.
Before she knew it, there was a little over two weeks until her birthday and her wedding.
Sonya thought that she was getting closer to a decision.
Each suitor had his admirable qualities, but she thought marrying the blue-eyed earl might be what was best. He was energetic and enthusiastic, and she didn’t need to try as hard with him.
He made her smile, and she wanted to be happy.
She was feeling better about the entire ordeal, more optimistic.
Until she had a fitting with Azam for her wedding dress.
He was waiting for her in her rooms, and when she saw him standing there with a sketchbook tucked into his side, her heart immediately began pounding.
‘Leave us,’ she told the maids, and they left. Taking a deep breath, Sonya entered the room, the two of them alone.
‘Hello,’ she said. Still she hoped that he might speak to her, reach for her. She knew it was foolish to hope, but she could not help it.
He nodded slightly, and her chest ached.
It was easy to convince herself she did not love him when he was far away, at the edge of a room, but here, standing right in front of her, she knew that her heart still beat only for him.
It made her miserable.
‘Why are you here again when you already know my size?’ she asked, voice quiet. She couldn’t look at him without it hurting, and yet, she couldn’t not look at him, either.
‘A wedding dress needs precision,’ he replied. His voice held no warmth.
Irritation cut through her. He was acting as though he were a stranger—no, as though he was merely her servant.
Opening his sketchbook, he strode toward her, opening to neat sketches of different designs.
It reminded her of when he was making Ximena’s dress, though that felt like a lifetime ago, now.
He had let her see his process then, let her see his frustration and botched ideas.
He had let her in, and now, the door had been slammed shut.
The room was quiet save for the sound of flipping pages as he showed her various options. She detested each of them. None of them were what she would want to wear on her wedding day, not Sonya. But they were perfect for Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Fairendelle.
The thought made her angry all of a sudden. But why was she angry? He didn’t know her, that much was clear.
Except that she knew he did. Every dress he had made her in the Outskirts had been precisely what she wanted. He had paid attention then, and he was refusing to now.
‘They’re perfect, for a princess,’ she said. ‘I hate them.’ She grabbed the sketchbook from his hand and slammed it shut.
He clenched his jaw, taking the sketchbook back from her. His knuckles were white as he clutched it.
‘Aren’t you a princess?’ he asked, finally looking at her. There was emotion in his voice—frustration and something else, something deeper.
‘Is that all I am?’ she asked, hurt. ‘You know me. Why do you pretend you don’t?’
It was his turn to look hurt. ‘You were angry I didn’t tell you the truth, but you never told me the full truth either,’ he said, the words coming out before he could stop them. ‘You never told me you were a princess.’
‘You already knew, so what does it matter now?’ she bit out.
They were both tense, but it felt good to argue with him, to finally talk to him. He opened his mouth to respond, but then snapped his mouth shut. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
He said nothing.
Anger burst through her. She wanted him to argue with her, to let him know all her thoughts the way he used to. But he wouldn’t.
‘You’re right,’ she said, voice hard. ‘I am a princess and you are my tailor. Do what you have come to do.’
She stepped onto a footstool placed there for the purpose and angrily stripped off her clothes, throwing the articles to the floor.
This time, he did not look away. His eyes were blazing as he watched, and heat spread through her.
She felt as though she was walking across a dangerously thin tightrope and could fall at any moment.
When she was down to her chemise and drawers, he strode toward her. Her breathing hitched as he began taking her measurements, his fingers brushing against her skin as he did so.
He was not being careful like the other times; it was as if he wanted to touch her, to torment her. Every minuscule moment of contact sent her skin aflame, her pulse quickening.
He wrapped the measuring tape around her waist, tugging roughly, and she stumbled forward, toward him. His hands were on her waist then, her hands on his shoulders. Their eyes clashed, both burning.
His chest was heaving as he took in deep breaths, looking up at her from dark lashes. Her stomach burned, and she didn’t know who then bridged the gap between them, but their lips met, and he was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, both of them desperate for one another.
He lifted her up with one arm, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he deepened the kiss, his tongue entering her mouth.
She buried her hands into his hair, twisting, and he made a low sound at the back of his throat. He turned and walked a few paces until her back was against the wall, his body pressed into hers. His hands slipped under her chemise, onto her bare skin, and she gasped, feeling lightheaded.
He kissed her neck, teeth scraping against her skin, and she ached for him to be closer.
She said his name, and a jolt ran through his body. He pulled away from her and she opened her eyes. His were dark and wide.
He looked stricken, his grip on her loosening, and she slid down, her legs unsteady. The moment she was on her feet, he stepped back until there was a yard of space between them.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, not looking at her. His voice was hoarse. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She was about to say that he had nothing to be sorry for when he ran, leaving her alone.
Sonya pressed her fingers to her swollen lips, her heart still beating fast and hard. She caught her breath, or tried to.
She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand anything.