Page 39 of The Wishless Ones
“We’re a walk from the House of Wisdom, exactly where we want to be,” Jafar said.
“We should be lodginginthe House of Wisdom,” Rohan said.
“Funny, you weren’t interested in the House of Wisdom at all earlier today,” Jafar mused. “Nor did you seem as concerned when you were gobbling down food meant for royalty.”
“That was before she threatened us,” Rohan snapped.
Jafar was fully, wholly, painfully aware. He’d been cautious of the Sultana from the moment she’d set eyes on him and regarded him, well, differently. He dragged a foot along the plush rug. “Is this not the finest wool we’ve ever seen?”
Rohan growled. “We need to find the golden scarab, Jafar. We need to find that lamp and bring Baba back to life. Mama, too. We need to get back to the House of Wisdom right now.”
Jafar tried, he really did. He tried to remain calm, to keep the ruse going. He tried to hold back, to not break his brother’s heart, but at some point, one had to stop being a child and grow up. Rohan was all over the place, almost as finicky as Baba. One moment he wanted to find the genie lamp, the next he wanted nothing to do with its search. One moment he refused to let Jafar question the Sultana and happily gorged on her food, the next he was hissing in Jafar’s ear fornotquestioning the queen—and then questioning her himself.
It appeared to Jafar that Rohan was more concerned with opposing Jafar than anything else. And Jafar decided he’d had enough.
“Did you want to bring Mama back so you could count the ridges in her spine?” Jafar asked. “See her mottled, dirt-dredged skull?”
Bile rose in his own throat at the words. Iago croaked and disappeared into one of the rooms. Rohan took a step back, disgust curling his upper lip, horror bright in his eyes.
“How could you?” he asked.
“It’s the truth, Rohan,” Jafar spat.
“What—no,” Rohan breathed. “What do you mean?”
“Say we learn of the golden scarab’s whereabouts. Say we find both halves and find the lamp and summon your genie. Say we wish Mama back to life—did you ever think about how that would work? She’s been dead for more than a decade. She could very well rise out of her grave as she is. A soulless corpse.”
Rohan was breathing hard and fast. “Then—then I’ll wish her soul back.”
“The lamp only offers so many wishes, Rohan.”
“No,” Rohan whispered again. “No, no, no. You said—”
“I said we could get our lives back. You decided the rest,” Jafar said, the fight leaching out of him. His anger winnowed into nothing. This wasn’t Baba. This wasn’t one of Baba’s advisors laughing in his face.
This was Rohan.
Jafar softened. It was easier without Iago here. “We can still—”
“Stop,” Rohan hissed. “Stop spinning words in circles. Stop twisting things. Stop acting like a caged animal let loose simply because Baba isn’t around to stop you anymore.”
Jafar’s laugh was mirthless, hiding his shock as best as he could. “I’m sorry I was trying to protect us.”
“Us?” Rohan bit out.
“Us, Rohan,” Jafar bit back. “I’ve been trying to do what’s best forus. I’m sorry if being fed and housed in a palace is inadequate for you.”
His brother said nothing, but his hurt was loud enough as he stormed into one of the bedrooms with one final look at Jafar and slammed the door closed.
Rohan pressed his back against the door and sank to the floor. The tile was cold beneath him, and the sun wasn’t as hot anymore as the day neared its end. His brother had been lying to his face the entire time. And Rohan, worst of all, had followed him without question.
Now that the truth was out, Jafar hadn’t even tried to apologize or explain, or to pretend. He’d spoken of their parents like someone would speak about glasses that had shattered or trinkets they’d bought in a shop full of a hundred others.
Rohan thought back to when the guard had praised Jafar for his application, and when Jafar had sent him to the section on Lore, saying he would look through the section on Artifacts. Right in front of the section titled Al-Kimiya.
Alchemy. The word transported him back to their house and their mother’s stories that spoke of alchemy. And then, another recollection: their father, yelling and shouting and the wordal-kimiya.
Rohan couldn’t remember much of the conversation—up until he recalled the word now, he hadn’t even known of the memory. What he did remember was Jafar’s fascination with alchemy, even as it straddled the line of the dark arts. Was that what he had always intended to do? Come here and learn alchemy? Rohan should have realized it from the start. Jafar had never cared for their father. He wouldn’t want to bring him back to life.
