Page 5 of The Wishless Ones
A voice came from the other side. “Yes.”
Jafar couldn’t hold back a laugh.
“I came to check on you,” Rohan said, his protest muffled by the door.
Rohan always visited Jafar when he was locked in here. The room was secluded, connected to the rest of the house by a small windowless hall. But as much as Jafar appreciated Rohan, his brother was his brother. Rohan saw the best in everyone, and in a very flawed way, too. He might not say it aloud, but he blamed Jafar for this predicament.Baba only got angry because you were disrespecting him,Rohan would likely say if he had more of a backbone—which was true, of course, but a little support would have been nice.
“Baba’s going to lose that deal,” Jafar said, wanting to redeem himself for whatever reason.
“Or Baba will eventually take your advice,” Rohan replied, because he didn’t know how pride worked.
Jafar rolled his eyes and said nothing. They were only two years apart, but there were moments when it felt like lifetimes. Rohan was still a child in so many ways that Jafar almost felt that it would be wrong to make him see reason and mar whatever view he had of his own father. Jafar didn’t want to steal that innocence away; he wanted to protect it.
Hehadto protect it. He’d sworn an oath to Mama long ago.
“Someone’s coming,” Rohan said in a rush. “I have to go. But I—I’ll talk to Baba.”
For Rohan, “talking” to their father meant half begging him to let Jafar out.
But it was only a door. If Jafar cared enough, he could break it—or, truer to himself, tinker with the lock or the hinges so that it only appeared locked.
That would mean caring enough.
He had come to enjoy his moments alone in the dark. It gave him time to think, space to let his anger bloom and take shape. He had done nothing wrong to deserve this, which raised the question: What good was there inbeinggood? What did it matter how he behaved if he was going to suffer either way? It wasn’t as if either of his parents had ever even reprimanded him for stealing. They had all but directly encouraged it: Mama with her praise for keeping them fed and Baba with his clearly bruised ego.
Perhaps he should give his father a real reason to punish him.
“Your scholarship,” Jafar reminded himself. That was what he was waiting for, what all this patience was for. It was bound to arrive any day now. He could feel it.
He paused as he felt something else, too: a presence, lingering on the other side of the door. He held his breath and pressed his ear against the wood, unsure whether it was Rohan coming to tell him he had failed or one of Baba’s men coming to let him out.Neither,Jafar thought. Whoever was on the other side of this door was unfamiliar to Jafar.
“You’re not leaving, you know.”
Jafar froze at the smarmy, almost smug voice. Everything about its nasal tone seemed designed to vex him, but trepidation crept into his veins at the words.
“And who are you?” Jafar asked.
“Eh.” This time the voice came from far lower down than it first had. Closer to the floor, as if whoever it was had crouched. “I guess you could call me a friend. I’m tired of watching your baba fail. You were right about the bandits, by the way.”
Jafar held back a groan. The bandits had been the cause of a fight two days earlier, when one of Baba’s advisors had suggested taking an easier route and Jafar had known it was too good to be true. The road might have been nice and paved, but it was winding, which meant it was full of prime spots for an ambush.
In truth, he had no reason to believe the voice, but it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.
“All right,friend,” Jafar simpered. “What kind of leaving are you referring to?”
A strange choking sounded from the other side, almost like Baba’s parrot whenever someone fed him a cracker he clearly loathed.
At last, his “friend” cleared his throat and said in a mock whisper, “You know what I’m talking about.”
Jafar ignored the sinking feeling in his gut.
“And how do you know this?” he asked.
In answer, another slip of parchment came through the gap. It was creased in half, like a pocket holding something within. Jafar bent over and picked it up.
He bit back a sigh. He was going to have to touch those dank curtains, wasn’t he?
Right before he could, there was a whoosh of air, and a weak beam of light slipped beneath the door. A candle, Jafar surmised. It wasn’t much, and Jafar refused to thank his “friend” for it before he knelt toward the crack and carefully unfolded the parchment. It was full of scraps, ripped shreds of another parchment.
