20. Sneaking Around and Stabbing Things
Sneaking Around and Stabbing Things
That evening, the Seraglio’s common room transformed into something between a parlor and a hedonistic leisure lounge.
Brass lanterns cast a mosaic of shifting light on the low tables of honeyed pastries, dates stuffed with almonds, and delicate rose-water confections that looked too beautiful to eat.
Women draped themselves over silk cushions and sipped wine from jeweled goblets.
An enormous, ornate brass hookah sat in the center of the round, recessed sitting area, its hoses coiling like serpents toward the clusters of chattering women.
Even just standing at the entrance, I could taste on my tongue the sweet, floral, and honey smoke that settled thick in the air.
“Little bird!” Salma called from a tumble of silk pillows near an alcove. She patted the space beside her. “Come sit with us!” She lounged with another woman with warm eyes and a cascade of shiny dark waves. Lantern light caught on the gold threads of her emerald robe.
I wove through the scattered groups of women and settled next to Salma.
“This is Jora,” Salma said, gesturing to her companion with affection. “Jora, this is our exotic little bird, Wren.”
Jora smiled. With fingers adorned in gold filigree rings, she picked at sugary pastries from a small porcelain plate balanced on her lap. “You’re the one who tried to sneak away last night?” Her gaze was assessing, but not unkind. “You’re braver than you look.”
Or stupider. The verdict’s still out.
A servant wearing their typical black gauze veil, which I was all too familiar with, pressed a goblet of wine into my hand before I could refuse.
The ruby liquid caught the lamplight, casting flecks of red and gold across my fingers.
I glanced around our pile of cushions for a place to set it when Salma stopped me and lifted her own goblet.
“Drink, little bird,” she urged. “Time to relax.” She gave me a soft smile. “You always seem so tense.”
Not going to happen. I had to keep my wits about me and my thoughts clear if I wanted to figure out a way to save Griffon. But not drinking would make me stick out even more than I already do.
Raising the glass to my mouth, I tipped it back just far enough for the ruby liquid to touch my closed lips. The tart taste of pomegranate and cardamom lingered, but never actually entered my mouth.
Salma took a gulp of her own. “Good, yes?”
I nodded with a smile and made a noncommittal sound.
She leaned in. “Little bird, be happy—we are living the dream. We are protected and living in luxury among our sisters. No man may even enter the Seraglio. Outside these walls, the world may rage, but inside, we will forever remain safe and treasured.”
As if on cue, one of the men dressed in black robes entered to relieve the guard who was positioned at the door.
“Um,” I started, wondering if Salma was nearsighted. “But what about them?” I asked, sweeping my hand toward the multiple men in black robes stationed at the exits.
“Oh,” she said with a wave, as if brushing off a minor detail. “Those are not men. They are eunuchs.”
I blinked. Her casual delivery made it seem even stranger.
“Oh. Right. Of course.” I tried to keep my face neutral, but internally I was cringing. That seemed… extreme.
Like the smoke from the hookah, conversation swirled around me, carrying wisps of the women’s lives.
Laughter punctuated hushed gossip about a soldier’s blunder atop a particularly difficult ruhk.
Chatter drifted from multiple directions about mysterious events planned for the upcoming festival.
And perched near the trays of desserts, a young woman muttered a complaint about a visiting dignitary with wandering hands as a ripple of muffled giggles erupted around her.
I was determined to remain detached, but I couldn’t help finding amusement in it all.
Weaving together mundane gripes, fragments of idle gossip, and playful speculation, the easy conversations wrapped the room in the pleasant sounds of communal life.
With a genuine smile, I nodded along, pretended to drink, and slyly dumped the contents of my glass into a nearby potted palm when attention was directed elsewhere.
The poor plant was going to be quite tipsy by the end of the evening.
Drawing deeply from the hookah hose and reclining against the cushions, Jora’s head rolled in my direction. “Have you tried this yet, little bird?”
“No.” I shook my head quickly. “But no, thank you.”
She passed the hose to Salma, who drew a deep inhale and pressed the mouthpiece toward me. “Come on, just once! It’s not that bad if—”
“I have a terribly sensitive throat,” I blurted, pushing it away. “Smoke makes me want to cough up my lungs.” It wasn't entirely a lie. The thick, sweet smoke already clinging to the air made my eyes water.
With glazed eyes, Salma pouted, but didn’t argue.
With their senses dulled, this might be the perfect time to pry for information for my next prison break attempt.
“The palace is so beautiful and gloriously confusing,” I said casually, swirling what little wine remained after my most-recent plant-watering operation.
“I keep getting lost. How many levels are there below the main floor?” I kept my eyes on my glass, attempting nonchalance, but with my luck, my face was painting itself in ten blindingly bright shades of awkward.
“Three, I think,” Jora answered, her words slightly slurred.
“But we're not allowed down there. That's where they keep the—” She hiccuped, and then laughed at herself.
Her eyes snagged on a stray thread on the skirt of her kaftan and pulled at it as though she forgot she was talking.
And then her eyes bounced back to mine as if she suddenly remembered and continued. “Storage. And the cisterns.”
And prisoners, presumably. Though she either didn’t know, had too much to drink, or had mastered the art of cautious omission.
I gave it another shot. “And there are so many entrances to secure. The guard rotations must be so complicated.”
Salma giggled. The sound was so unlike her usual deep, melodic laugh. “Why would you need to know about guard rotation?” Her eyes twinkled. “Planning another escape?”
All at once, attention shifted in our direction. My heart faltered.
Heat crawled up my neck as I forced a laugh. “Just curious,” I said lightly, taking another fake sip. “I find security systems fascinating. The mathematics of efficient patrol patterns, you know.”
The room collectively tilted their heads.
For the love of— “Never mind.”
As the evening wore on, conversations grew louder and less coherent.
I learned which guards had the kind of rears that made uniforms worth appreciating and which silk merchants were worth their weight in gold.
While I was slyly pouring my wine into Lina’s glass, I unfortunately became privy to far too much about her digestive troubles.
But nothing useful about the palace layout, guard rotation schedules, where the prisoners were kept, or anything that would help Griffon.
As I was readying an excuse to retire for the night, a swish of crimson silk caught my eye.
Mali weaved through the room with the precision of someone navigating both cushions and intoxication.
With cheeks a shade too pink, her eyes landed on me with a combination of delighted greeting and mischievous appraisal.
“There you are,” she said, dropping onto the cushions beside me with less grace than usual. “My beautiful little bird.” The wine on her breath was thick enough to taste. “Are you behaving yourself tonight?”
I shifted over to give her more breathing space and reclaim some of my own. But math was clearly not in my favor because when I moved back a centimeter, she moved closer by two.
“Of course.” I forced a smile. “Behaving so hard it hurts.”
Then suddenly her hand found my knee.
She leaned in. “Those eyes, that hair,” she purred, her words only slightly slurred. “You’ll be quite the gift for Faisal when the time comes.” Her fingertips walked up my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “He’ll be so enchanted.”
Wait. What?
Before I could process that disturbing revelation, Mali cupped my jaw, leaned in, and placed her lips on mine.
My eyes widened. The kiss was soft, tasting of wine and honey, and for much longer than I am willing to admit, I was too shocked to react.
And stunned not just by the act itself, but by the utter surprise that it wasn't entirely unpleasant.
Finally, comprehension decided to make a guest appearance. I went to pull back, but her other hand tangled in my choppy hair. Then, in a move that was much too smooth for her inebriated state, she pressed me back against the cushions, deepening the kiss.
I jerked away, gasping. Twin stars above, what just happened?
With heavy-lidded dark eyes, she smiled lazily down at me. “Such a sweet thing,” she murmured.
Then, without missing a beat, she turned and reached for Jora.
Jora leaned over me eagerly, and suddenly they were kissing across my lap.
Mali threaded her fingers through Jora’s waves, while Jora’s traced the curves of Mali’s face.
I sank back, willing the cushions to swallow me whole while my eyes performed a frantic search for literally anything else to look at.
Turns out the ceiling was quite fascinating tonight.
Mali shifted over me, moving to straddle Jora. I took the opportunity to slide sideways off the cushions as if I were auditioning for a very awkward interpretive dance about personal space. Neither of them noticed.
My face was on fire. I cupped my cheeks like a fool, as if holding my face could anchor me to the reality that I’d just had my first kiss. Predictably, my thoughts were running in circles, tripping over each other in a panic.