II.
THE PRICES IN THE MARKET keep climbing up. First it was the oil, then it's the wood, now even things like rice seem like luxury.
How will we live?
I've tried talking this out with my husband, but he doesn't care. I can talk and talk and talk until all my saliva dries out and my mouth goes numb and heavy and he'll still be there, sitting on the sorry excuse of our bed, staring at me with sleepy eyes and dazed faces. By the end of our conversation, the only thing that will come out of his mouth is, "Can we still afford the alcohol?"
Why did I marry this man? Why did I even think this was a good idea? I should have stayed away. I should have stayed back home.
No one here can help me — I don't even think I can help myself. It's a terrifying thing. It almost feels like I'm watching myself walk further and further into never-ending doom.
And she. What can I do about her? At times I look at her and I feel utmost love, and other times I look at her and I feel immeasurable hatred. She looks at me with her eyes and little straw doll and I have to hold myself back from screaming.
I'm so tired. I'm so tired.
When will this end?
When I went down to breakfast the next day, my face was solemn.
It had been set this way ever since I woke up.
At one point, I think I even scared Maria. Her movements while drawing on my rouge had been very careful, and every so often, she would run back to the jewelry box and try and secretly glance at me out of the corner of her eye.
Unfortunately, her glance was more like a blatant stare, but at this point, I was tact enough to ignore it.
I couldn't help it, though. As I walked down the hallways and into the dining hall, the only thing running through my mind was—
Khuda, don't mess this up.
Don't let anyone else know.
There was no person in the world that could be as bad of a liar as either Maryam or Maria — those two were tied for last place — but to say that I was the greatest liar in the world would also be false.
It wasn't that I was bad at facial expressions, but rather, that I would get too tense when trying to lie.
I remember back when I was younger, I had tried to steal a tomato from Khale's stand. Honestly, she would have given it to me if I had only asked, but at the time, I severely wanted to try my luck and see my future as a possible pickpocket.
Sometimes around dusk, at the busiest times of the city, when the market was still bustling with mothers who had forgotten their herbs and spices and kids screaming and chasing each other around colorful vendors, I snuck up to the side of her stall, reached out one grubby, dirty hand, and snatched a tomato just as she was bagging apples for a customer.
My movements were quite clean, and perhaps I would have gotten away with it if only I had bothered to run away as soon as I'd gotten it. But at that age, I was still overjoyed at the fact that I could even take a tomato, and didn't bother planning my escape route at all.
When Khale finished bagging the apples and turned around to face me, she asked me where I got the tomato from.
At that point, I should have just ran away. Instead, I stood there, jutting my chin out and prodly saying that I'd found it in the bushes in front of our house.
Khale's smile had faded, and for a long while after that, she continued to stare at me.
At the time, I'd thought myself to be quite clever. I had even made her speechless. She had nothing she could catch me on now.
It was only when Khale burst out into laughter that I realized something was wrong.
"Aliya, you look constipated," she'd said, reaching out to pinch my cheek. "Khuda, you're a terrible liar. You know, your mom is a really good one. I didn't expect that trait not to pass down to you. If you wanted a tomato, you could've just asked. I would have given it to you."
Not long after, I'd walked back home in a daze, hands full with two bags of fresh tomatoes. When I had freed them enough to lift a hand up and touch my face, my cheeks felt burning hot.
I had never bothered to lie to Khale again, but the last few months in the Palace must have somehow, someway, hopefully made me a little better. After all, how many times had I lied, and how many times had my pretense slipped?
If this was a tightope, then I could only hope I could reach the bar when I slipped.
Maryam was already sitting on the table, sat on the corner, most furthest chair from the door. She had dolled up beautifully today, a red gem the size of a pearl inserted into her hair, and she had even drawn a small, gold flower on the centre of her forehead.
Her effort was admirable, and it wasn't hard to spot some envious once-overs sent over in her direction.
But as I walked closer, I wondered if Maryam herself noticed the unevenly applied sefidab on her neck, or the slightly messy kohl, or the rouge that was redder on one cheek compared to the other.
Compared to the usual clean, neat Maryam, this gaudy, fancy, tousled-looking woman did not look like her.
But to be fair.
She looked quite like a princess.
"Did you dress yourself today?" I whispered into her ear, taking a seat beside her chair.
"I couldn't sleep last night, so I stayed up all night. I got up before anyone came in and did my own makeup. You know, just to ease my nerves." Maryam reached up, touching the side of her cheek. "Why? Does it look that bad?"
"Not bad," I said, lowly. "Just... No, nevermind. You look fine."
I didn't think telling her was a good idea after all.
Maryam nodded, clenching her hands in her dress. Her fingers had long since turned white and pale, and I wondered whether she noticed.
I decided that she probably didn't, and I shouldn't really care.
"I'm assuming that he has his turn today."
"Yes," she whispered. "There. He's there. You can see him standing on the side of the door."
There was only one man outside. Although he was facing out into the hall, his silhouette was large and tall, with hair cropped short to his head and broad-set shoulders.
I pursed my lips.
There was no need for him to turn around for me to realize that he was good-looking, in a way that was drastically different from the princes in the castle.
Prince Raza, Prince Finn, Prince Cairo; all three of them held a languid, indolent quality to them, the kind that made it very easy to daydream them lying on golden chaises, sipping on wine, surrounded by a hundred different beauties. It was the kind of priviledged aura held exclusively by the rich and powerful.
Just then, the guard glanced back into the dining hall.
A very warm, gentle face, and when I turned to look at Maryam, I noticed her ears had flushed crimson.
I frowned. "Don't be so obvious," I muttered. "There's bound to be someone who will notice. If you want to exchange loving glances, invite him to your room later."
The blush spread over to Maryam's cheeks. "Sorry," she whispered, ducking her head down.
"What's his name again?"
"Ahmad."
"Ahmad..." I paused, taking a sip of my water. From the corner of my eye, I saw Maryam glance up at me.
"What do you think?" she whispered.
I smiled. Even to me, it felt sarcastic. "Since when does it matter what I think?" I muttered. "I still won't be able to change your mind."
Maryam's face fell, and for a second, she went silent. "Well, yes... But I want to know what you think. Do you think he's a good man?"
"How can I see him once and tell whether or not he's a good man?" I asked. "My intuition isn't that sharp. He looks good, but common. I've seen too many abusive drunkards that looks like him."
Maryam's face fell even further, and I reached out to slap the side of her arm. "If you want to lie, you have to be able to act. Your face is practically begging for someone to find out."
"But--"
"All I said is that his face is common, Maryam," I whispered. "I've seen many terrible men, but there are also faithful brothers, children, and fathers amongst the bunch. How should I know which one he falls into?"
Immediately, her face brightened, and I couldn't help but criticize her in my head.
So easy to please, so simple to fool.
For your sake, Maryam, I hope he is the latter.
"Well," Maryam whispered back, fixing her posture, "well, you have to agree that there are worse choices I could have made."
"And certainly better ones," I sighed. "Just-- you have to learn to keep this quiet. Very, very quiet. The walls have ears, the ceilings have eyes, and Maryam, you never know if the maids sent to wash your bedsheets or clean your closets are spies. Once any of the princes find out, it'll be the death of both of you."
I reached across the table to take a piece of fruit. "I don't know what made you think this was a good idea," I muttered, "but there's nothing more powerful than the might of the imperial family. It takes one word for them to kill you. Don't you forget."
Maryam bit her lip. "But you'd help us, won't you?"
"What do you think I can help you with? What's my position that I can help you? What ability do we have? 'Brought in by ministers to become concubines,' they're just pretty words to hide the fact that we're slaves. The only thing I can promise you is that I won't speak."
"Then that's good enough for me," she whispered back. When she set her spoon down, I noticed her hands were white, clutched too tightly around the tableware. "That's good enough for me."
The rest of the breakfast was silent, in an awkward way that had never been there before. Maryam kept her head down, and as I reached out to take fruit, bread, wine, I debated all the numerous ways I could strike up a conversation.
In the end, there was none. It was the first time I felt stifled around her.
As the clinks on the tableware started to recede and the chatter started to grow louder, and the chairs of the princes kept empty, I heard several disappointed sighs come from the women around me.
"Not here again," one of them complained. Though she tried to keep her voice low, it was shrill, and it easily echoed to the other side of the table. "It's been three days since they last appeared for breakfast."
"Hush," her friend whispered. "Maybe they're just busy?"
"With what?" she asked back. "Isn't our job here to make them happy? To help them destress from all the busy matters? None of us have had dates with any of them over the past week and a half, and even when we take the intitiative, they refuse."
"Calm down, Neda. They're not like us. They're princes. They have tens of responsibilities, while ours is just to be there when they call. We can't judge them. They will definitely call us when they have the time; no man can resist temptation."
"I know," Neda whispered. "I'm just afraid that they'll send us home like they did Kiana and Laleh. They weren't even given a warning, no guards, just a camel and luggage. How are they supposed to make their way back to Babylon like that? How are they supposed to know the way? How are they going to survive on the road?"
The journey from Archaem to Babylon and vice versa was full of dangers. When Neda's words fell, the clinking of tableware suddenly stopped altogether.
Pretty women never did have it easy. The Kiana and Laleh she was describing... I didn't have to ponder very far to know that neither of them would have a good ending.
At best, they'd be taken as another, common man's concubine. At worst, though...
No one knew the extent of human depravation and madness.
Beside me, Maryam's face paled with fright, and I looked down to my empty plate and gold tableware, and whispered a silent prayer.
For a long time thereafter, it was silent. And then--
A burst of loud, harried footsteps came from the hallway, so loud that there was no doubt in my mind that the person was running.
Unfortunately, it didn't seem to just be one.
Didn't the royal family enjoy silence? Who...?
When I looked to the doorway, I barely managed to catch Ahmad's stunned expression.
Suddenly, a butler rushed in, the door banging heavily on the wall. His face was white and pale, and his clothes had gotten skewed. Surreptitiously, he cleared his throat, before announcing in an extremely shrill, sharp voice, "Ladies, the Shahzadehs will be using this room for private purposes. Please leave in an orderly fashion through the side door, and you will be escorted by the kitchen staff to your rooms. Once again, please--"
"Have you lost your mind? Am I so dirty I would listen to a concubine? A haroom zade with no real status, our ancestors would roll if they knew!" Prince Finn's scream echoed throughout the hall.
I frowned, setting my spoon down.
It was just the slightest bit blood-curling.
a few people have PMed and commented here asking whether Aliya will be published after its completion, but that would all depend on you, Aliya's readers! If this book were to be commercially published, would anyone be interested?
p.s. if you have the time, please check out my new story, The Great Perhaps. it's a different genre from Aliya, but hopefully you guys will enjoy it!
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