Page 50 of The Wishless Ones
Jafar froze. How much had she heard?Seen?Had she crept into the dungeons with them? No, Iago would have noticed her. She was at the far end of his peripheral vision in the adjacent hall, heading toward them, not away. Her hair was bound in a bun, stray strands framing the soft, iridescent planes of her face. He couldn’t see what she was wearing, but he was certain it was lovely. It was a strange feeling for butterflies to flutter in the exhilaration already pumping through his veins.
“Did you hear me, Jafar?” Rohan asked, thankfully unaware. “We need to get back to our rooms and wash our hands of this.” He winced. “Literally.”
The girl’s lips curled into a grin. She, on the other hand, was wholly aware of how she was distracting him.
“We’re in no rush, brother. It’s the middle of the night,” Jafar replied, dismissing his concerns. “Everyone important is asleep.”
He snuck another glance in time to see her lift a brow before she seized up at the sight of something behind them and slowly backed away, disappearing into the shadows. He heard a door click closed, and then—
“Boys?”
Jafar, Rohan, and Iago went stock-still.
The Sultana.
Jafar’s mind was still racing with all that had transpired in the prison, with the sight of the girl and her lifted brow, but his mind was working enough to know that the Sultana shouldn’t have been up and about at midnight. Near the dungeons, no less.
Iago quickly hopped onto Jafar’s shoulder, and the three of them turned to face her and the lantern she held high, dousing the place with light. Harun stood just behind her, more vigilant than anyone should be at this hour. Jafar tried to shove his bloodied hands behind him and failed.
The Sultana saw.
With a cry, she rushed to them. She brushed Rohan’s damp hair from his brow, sparing him heartbeats of motherly attention before turning fully to Jafar. She swiped her thumb down Jafar’s cheek, and he had to stop himself from leaning into it. How long had it been since he’d felt a mother’s touch? Since he’d been the subject of another’s concern?
“You’re bleeding,” she said, and for a moment, she wavered in Jafar’s gaze. He was a little boy again, watching the sun warm the worn lines of his mother’s face.
Through it all, he could feel Rohan’s ire. His unhappiness, scrubbing Jafar’s skin raw. Maybe that was the reason for what Rohan did next, because Jafar could not fathom any other.
Rohan cleared his throat and said, “We have something to tell you.”
Rohan was certain the Sultana would wait until morning before granting them an audience, but she whisked them away at once. He was still wary of her after how quickly she’d arrived at the dungeons, and with her royal vizier, too. Rohan had thought, at first, that it was because of Iago’s impersonation of her, but it couldn’t be.
Something was amiss, but all Rohan saw was the attention she’d given Jafar, like a doting mother who suddenly forgot that she had two sons.She’s not your mother,Rohan told himself. It was the late hour, he decided, toying with his mind.
The Sultana marched through the halls in relative darkness, Harun following behind her, enveloping Jafar and Rohan in flickering light. She led them to a wing of the palace they’d never been to before and pushed open a pair of doors to a receiving chamber with ease. It was a majlis, with low seats wrapped in brushed bronze, plush and inviting, centered in the room with little else of note.
She sat first, her legs crossed, her gown a river of pale pink silk around her. The lantern flickered, catching the strands of gray running through her hair.
Rohan carefully sat to her right, Jafar to her left. She summoned a servant with a bowl of water, and watched as Jafar scrubbed at his hands without a hint of disgust on his face—or hers. The royal vizier, on the other hand, had enough for both of them, revulsion twisting his features into something sour.
Rohan was starting to wish he hadn’t spoken so brazenly outside the dungeons. He was surprised he could even speak for the way his teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. Another servant brought in a tray with food and drink, setting it on the low table between them. Rohan could barely look at it.
Were they going to be punished for sneaking around the palace? Did she know the two of them had found the dungeons? Andwhywere they awake and alert at midnight—almost as though they’d been waiting for this moment?
“Drink,” the Sultana said, nodding at the tray and the little handleless cups on it.
They were glass, the liquid inside amber and fragrant. Cardamom tea. Rohan didn’t need to be told twice. He gulped it down, even as the glass burned his fingers and the tea scorched a path through his throat.
He stopped shaking.
His head cleared.
The majlis cushions were palatial beneath them, embroidered in tiny flowers of vermillion and white, fine vines intersecting one another. The intricacy of the seating was contrasted by the minimalist beauty of the floor. Wide tiles in creamy onyx cascaded to plain walls accented by simple wood carvings hung at intervals. He set his empty glass on the ebony table beside a still untouched plate of those buttery ghorayeba cookies with perfectly centered pistachios.
“Now, what is it you wish to tell me?” she asked.
She looked to Jafar, even though it was Rohan who had prompted this meeting, Rohan whose idea it had been to put two alchemical texts together and create what they had created.
Rohan heard Jafar’s inhale, the teetering pause as he gathered his words.
