Page 41 of The Wishless Ones
The House of Wisdom was funded by the Maghrizi palace, and though much of their resources were clearly dedicated to the preservation of the many books and scrolls in the library, they did not scrimp here, either.
There were complex distillation sets and vials storing a multitude of gases, elixirs, and potions. Well-made tools hung from the walls, neat and orderly, above sheets of metal that could be sculpted however one required. Jafar suspected he’d be spending a good amount of time in here when he began dabbling in alchemy.
He almost laughed at the idea that was once so far out of reach.
“And where will you find your finder’s spell?” Iago asked, grounding him.
Jafar made his way through the shelves. “In Alchemy.”
“I see,” Iago said with a note of trepidation. Jafar realized then that whatever had made Iago the way he was had to be related to alchemy. The study was innocent enough, but it was a narrow path, easy to veer off into the dark arts. And create something like a bird who spoke and acted like a man.
Jafar couldn’t keep looking with Iago here. That would be disrespectful, dismissive. He opened his mouth to tell him to embark on his search.
Iago spoke first. “Well, get on with it, then! I guess I’ll hunt around for answers of my own.”
The parrot hopped off his shoulder and flew to the shadows above the shelves with a whistle, leaving Jafar before the section he’d only ever dreamed of seeing with his own two eyes. He drew a careful breath to steady himself and the rush of emotions flooding through him. If only Mama were here to see him now. To seethis—the House of Wisdom and the artifacts she’d spoken of; to feel the air that shimmered with the same mystical magic of her tales.
He didn’t know where to start. He stepped closer, awestruck and ecstatic, perusing the spines and scrolls and an endless string of words listing out ways to evoke and persuade and alter. There were infinite uses for elements like brimstone and quicksilver, even for water. Then there were other, more obscure elements he’d never heard of, like bloodstones and tin salts, and the strange, eerie symbols used to represent them. He hadn’t realized the magnitude of what alchemy had to offer. All he’d ever known were Mama’s stories and the handful of books she’d once owned. This was tenfold. This was more than he could ever ask for.
But he could barely concentrate.
Every time he blinked, he saw the hurt crushing Rohan’s features. He dragged a hand down his face.Why do I care so much?Rohan was acting more childish than ever, slowly becoming a hindrance as Baba had been.
Jafar set a bundle of scrolls aside and sighed, leaning back against the bookshelf. He would make things right with Rohan first and return with a clear mind.
“That’s quite the sigh,” someone said. “Whatever you’re worried about might just not be worth the trouble.”
Jafar started, nearly toppling the scrolls piled precariously on the shelf as someone rounded the aisle to stand before him.
It was her. The girl he’d seen walking to the gardens.
She was even more tantalizing up close. The picture of beauty, with doe eyes encased by lashes as lush as her curves, irises a lovely shade darker than her silken hair, and a smile that could only be described as wickedly sweet. Her gown clung to her as keenly as a lover, exuding opulence with faceted garnets dazzling in gold-threaded florals, vibrant against a landscape of black gossamer.
The potted plants scattered amongst the shelves leaned toward her, and the featherlight curtains rustled for her attention from the library’s windows.
“It’s bad manners to stare,” she mock-whispered. Her gaze was alight with mischief under the library’s many candlelit sconces.
“As it is to take someone by surprise,” Jafar replied just as quickly. Her grin widened.
She hummed. “You got me there.”
Her eyes were like ink, eager to tell a story, drawing him into their depths. She was curious, he could tell. He wondered if she was one of the scholarship students the House of Wisdom had taken in this year. No, she was dressed too finely for that, and the Sultana didn’t have a daughter, as far as he knew. Then again, very few even knew of the prince’s current situation.
“I see we’re one and the same,” the girl said, and Jafar blinked at her, eyebrows lifting in question.
“Are we?” he asked.
She nodded. “You want to know who I am, and I want to know who you are. Though there’s something thrilling about meeting a person wholly unaware of who you are, no? To be a stranger is often a gift.”
That, Jafar could agree on. It was refreshing. It wasfreeing. His entire existence had been associated with his father’s for so long that it sometimes felt as if he was only ever a son and never his own person.
For a moment, Jafar thought that meant the girlwasa secret Maghrizi princess, but a girl who was kept hidden wouldn’t find it thrilling to meet someone who didn’t know of her. Jafar imagined she would feel quite the opposite.
“And I see no reason why that must change,” Jafar replied, because he knew it was what she wanted him to say.
She was distracting him from his task, but Jafar was as intrigued by her as she appeared to be by him. Did she wear kohl for beauty or protection? Was her sun-kissed skin an indicator of a girl who preferred the outdoors?What are you doing, Jafar?Why did any of this matter?
Please don’t come back yet, Iago.
