Star of Persia

Chapter 9

I shudder in revulsion as I'm led back to our quarters, the memory of the invasive examination refusing to fade.

The maid leading me chatters cheerily, but I don't hear her words. Instead, I clasp my trembling hands together and try to push away the nausea that rises into my throat.

The physician had led me into a small cubicle filled with incense and petite jars holding fluids of various colours and scents.

A single upraised bench laid central to the room and I was directed to lay on it. My underclothes were peeled away, but my mind shies from remembering what followed soon after.

Don't think about it, I tell myself a little desperately, just don't think about it. At least you passed the test. That's all that matters.

I barely notice that we have re-entered the House of Rosa, jolting back to reality as I am led into a spacious sunroom. The maid murmurs a pleasant goodbye, and I whisper one back to her as she strides from the room and closes the door.

I blink twice before focusing on the room. Grand windows allow a flood of light from three directions to brighten the comfortable armchairs, chaises and lounge beds. Several small tables are placed in easily accessible places, the central and largest table holding steaming tea, fruit and sugared pastries. Two silent eunuchs stand by, waiting to assist.

Gossamer curtains billow in the breeze welcomed in through the stately windows. On the far wall is a shelf containing several bound scrolls. For a moment, my curiosity sparks, and I stroll over.

My fingers brush the rolled parchment, and a small sigh escapes me. My cousin taught me to read with scrolls he'd borrowed from his work sitting before the palace gates. He'd point out numbers and words, explaining their meaning and the intricacies of the Persian language.

Parchment itself was expensive, as was the ink required to write on them. While I had a basic understanding of reading, perhaps now that I was in the lap of luxury in a favoured house, I could finally learn to write.

Faint memories of scrawling misshapen letters into the dirt as my cousin laughed and clapped cause a tiny smile to light up my previously dispirited expression.

I delicately take a scroll, unbind the leather and smooth out the thick paper. My eyes dart across the lines, drinking in the words.

"Of Dyes and Fabric," I read aloud.

"You can read?" A voice behind me says and I jump in alarm, whirling around.

Sara stands watching me cautiously, arms wrapped around herself.

"Oh," I say, "I can read a little."

"Me too," she says in her heavily accented voice, stepping closer. A slight smile curves her lips, and it makes her even more beautiful.

I return her smile with a broad one of my own, and it seems to melt the ice in her eyes.

"My father teach me many languages," she murmurs, cheeks flushing, "but I am not as smooth in Persian speech."

Suddenly, Sara's guarded quietness becomes clear. She is a foreigner in these lands, after all, whose language and culture are probably not ingrained in her mind. I certainly could not blame her for being wary and scared.

"Well, I think you're doing just fine with the language," I tell her, deciding here and now to befriend her and offer her comfort in this strange new world. Perhaps we could navigate it together and Yasamin would overcome her aversion to her. 

"You think so?" Sara says, a hopeful expression lightening her features.

"Of course. I can help you if you like."