‘Is something wrong…?’ Kalila asked and Aarif thrust something at her.
‘Here.’
Kalila’s hands closed around the object as a matter of instinct and she glanced down at it. It was a book, a mystery by Agatha Christie, one she hadn’t read. Her lips curved into an incredulous, hopeful smile and she glanced up at Aarif.
‘Thank you.’
‘I thought you might want something to read, and I had some in my room.’ Then, as if he’d said too much, he shut his mouth, his lips pressed tightly together once more.
Yet Kalila could not keep from smiling, couldn’t keep the knowledge from blooming inside her. Somewhere, somehow, deep inside, Aarif cared. About her. Maybe just a little bit, a tiny bit, but—
It was there.
‘Thank you,’ she said again, her voice dropping to a whisper, and Aarif looked as if he might say something. He raised his hand, and Kalila tensed for his touch, wanting it, needing it—but he dropped it again and gave her a small, sorrowful smile.
‘Goodnight, Kalila,’ he said, and turned and walked slowly down the darkened hallway.
He needed to stay away from her. Aarif knew that, knew it with every instinct he possessed, and yet he denied what his mind relentlessly told him, denied and failed.
Failed his brother, failed himself, failed Kalila. Was there any test he would not fail? he wondered cynically, his mouth twisting in bitter acknowledgement of his own weakness. Was there anything—anyone—he could be trusted with?
The last time he’d been entrusted with another’s care, his brother had died.
Take care of him.
He hadn’t.
This time, he’d stolen a princess’s innocence, her purity. He had, Aarif acknowledged with stark clarity, ruined her life. For even if Zakari could forgive his bride, the chances of Kalila gaining what she so wanted with him—love, happiness—were slim. How could those be built on a basis of betrayal?
It was with a rare irony that Aarif acknowledged how this tragedy had sprung from the first. If he hadn’t had his old nightmare, Kalila wouldn’t have comforted him. He wouldn’t have found a moment’s peace, a moment’s sanctuary in her arms, and sought more.
More.
He’d denied himself for so long, kept himself apart from life and love, and yet for a moment he’d given in, he’d allowed himself to feast at a table where he was not even a guest.
And he wanted more.
Even now, he wanted to feel her in his arms, breathe in the sweet scent of her hair, watch the impish smile play about her mouth before he kissed her—
He strode into his bedroom, his fingers threading through his hair, fists clenched, feeling pain—
How could he make this right? How could he make anything right?
Or was he condemned to the hell of living with his mistakes and their endless repercussions, without any chance for healing or salvation?
Outside the cicadas continued their relentless chorus and the moon rose in the inky sky. He was condemned, Aarif decided grimly, and he deserved to be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE next day dawned bright and clear, with a refreshingly cool breeze blowing in from the sea. A perfect day for sightseeing, Kalila decided happily as she dressed in loose trousers and a tunic top in a pale mint green.
‘What shall we do today?’ Juhanah asked, bustling in just as Kalila began plaiting her hair.
Kalila’s heart sank. In all her vague imaginings of the day ahead, she had not considered Juhanah, but of course her nurse would expect to accompany her into town, and of course Aarif would demand such a chaperone. Suddenly the day took on a whole new complexion, as Kalila envisioned the many ways Aarif could keep from engaging with her at all.
And wasn’t that really the right thing to do? Kalila’s conscience suffered yet another pang. If she had any sense of honour or duty, any sense at all, she would keep her distance from Aarif, just as he was determined to keep it from her. Surely learning more about him—growing closer, if such a thing were possible—would only lead to complications. Disappointment. Danger.
And yet. And yet…she still wanted to know him, wanted to discover what drove him, as well as what made him smile or laugh. Wanted to feel that closeness, that connection again. Right now it felt like the only pale ray of hope and happiness in an otherwise dull and disappointing existence.
‘Prince Aarif is taking us into Serapolis,’ Kalila said, finally answering her nurse. She kept her gaze on her own reflection in the mirror, although she was conscious of Juhanah stilling behind her. ‘He realised he has certain duties as host, especially considering there is no one else here at the moment.’
Juhanah gave a small grunt of satisfaction. ‘Did you speak to him?’
Kalila hesitated, and in the mirror she saw Juhanah’s eyes narrow. ‘He gave me a book last night,’ she finally said lightly. ‘An Agatha Christie, actually. You know how I like mysteries.’
Juhanah still looked suspicious, but she set about folding clothes and rustling the bed sheets, although Kalila was sure there was a palace maid who could see to such things. ‘Did he tell you when King Zakari will be returning?’
‘No, we didn’t speak of it,’ Kalila replied, then bit her lip at that unintentional admission. Juhanah’s eyes narrowed speculatively once more.
‘Didn’t you?’ she said, but left it at that.
Aarif met them in the palace courtyard. He looked fresh and cool, dressed in a cream-coloured shirt, open at the throat, and dark, belted trousers.
‘We can take a car into the Old Town,’ Aarif said, ‘which will be comfortable and more private. Or, if you prefer, we can walk. Serapolis is a small city, and we do not have many formal customs here.’
‘Let’s walk,’ Kalila said immediately, and the corner of Aarif’s hard mouth twitched upward in a tiny smile.
‘I thought you’d say that,’ he murmured, and just from his look Kalila felt a dart of electricity shoot straight through her belly, tingling upwards and outwards to every finger, toe, fibre and sinew. She smiled back, but Aarif had already turned away and began to address Juhanah.
That was how the first hour passed as they walked down the narrow, winding street from the palace into the heart of the Old Town. Aarif pointed out various landmarks on the way, but as this was more for the benefit of Juhanah than her, Kalila found her mind drifting.
This was her town, her country. Her life. Her mind skittered away from that thought, although it was difficult to ignore the admiring gazes and bows of passers-by who recognised Aarif, some also guessing who Kalila must be. Within a short while she had collected a handful of ragged posies, and the edge of her tunic was grimy from the hands of children who had come begging for a blessing, some speaking in Arabic, some in Greek, some even in English.
Something softened and warmed inside her at the genuine goodwill of the Calistan people, and she smiled and touched the children’s heads, grateful for their spontaneous affection. If she couldn’t have the love of her husband, perhaps she would satisfy herself with the love of her people. Many a queen had done the same.
But I want more. The protest rose within her, unbidden, desperate. More.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Aarif watching her, and there was a strange, arrested look in his eyes, something she didn’t understand. She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or appreciative of that look, yet it warmed her to know he was looking at her, thinking of her. Conscious of her eyes upon him, he jerked his own gaze away, focusing on the view of the market square ahead of them.
The market was lined with stalls and filled with the raucous shrieks of the peddlers determined or perhaps desperate to sell their wares. Kalila walked along the stalls, revelling in the variety of sights, smells and sounds. It had only been two days ago that she’d been in Makaris, enjoying a sight just like this one, and yet it felt an age, a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes—for surely she was not the same woman she had been then.
She knew she wasn’t.
Juhanah was already exclaiming over a bolt of red damask threaded with gold, and Kalila paused before a display of lavender silk, threaded with a rainbow of shades of blue and purple. It looked and felt like water, clean and cool.
‘You like that?’ Aarif asked, coming up behind her, and Kalila smiled.
‘It’s very pretty.’
Aarif barked a few instructions in Arabic to the peddler, who, giving him a rather toothless smile, said something back. They were speaking too fast for Kalila to catch what they were saying, and her Arabic wasn’t very good anyway, but she knew they were haggling, and she enjoyed seeing the glint of amused determination in Aarif’s eyes, the way the simple exchange lightened his countenance.
Finally they reached an agreed price, and Kalila couldn’t help but murmur, ‘Did you get a good deal?’
Aarif turned to her with a smile and a shrug. ‘He would have been offended if I hadn’t haggled.’
‘Of course.’ She paused, watching as the peddler bundled the silk up and Aarif gave instructions to deliver it to the palace. ‘You didn’t have to buy it for me,’ she said quietly.
He shrugged, yet this time the movement lacked the easy familiarity of a moment before. Instead it was tense, straining towards indifference, and his gaze did not meet hers. ‘It will look lovely on you. Besides, it is custom in Calista to offer a wedding gift for the bride.’