handsome, charming boy—is the one meant to help me find my way out of it. And there may even be kissing.
He leans back and says with a smile, “C’est parfait.”
I beam back at him. Yes, my sentiments exactly.
Leila
I enter the solitary Room of Ablution. I have barely slept, but I am awake, alert. The blue-tiled mosaic on the floor and walls is soothing, mesmerizing as I take care to wash away my Giaour’s touch. Pasha’s senses are sharp, like his vengeance. But, like all men, he has weaknesses—his unfettered devotion and unusual trust in me that I have earned, painstakingly and at a cost.
I take the cloth and scrub off the sandalwood and musk of my Giaour. I massage rose oils onto every inch of my skin and run my scented fingers through the loosened black tresses that fall down my back, which Pasha loves to twist and coil around his fingers.
“You must be careful. Even my protection has limits.” Si’la appears before me, impeccably dressed and dry despite the wet floor. Nothing can touch her. Not even me.
The otherworldly beauty of the jiniri might be too much for most human beings to bear, but she has been with me since I first remember gazing out of my cradle, since the accident that left me orphaned and destined for this palace prison. They say I arrived clutching the opal that now hangs from my neck. Some of the other girls say it is cursed. Even Pasha doesn’t dare touch it, too afraid that the rumors of my jiniri are true. I hold the opal between my fingers, watch its fire blazing within. The same fire burns in Si’la’s eyes.
“I am ever watchful,” I say. “Vigilant. I am biding my time until I can escape this place.”
“The time will come,” she agrees, “but I am afraid it will not be as you wish.”
“Nothing in this world is as I wish.”
“Nothing but your beloved.”
“Nothing but my beloved.”
“At your father’s dying breath,” she reminds me, “I swore on my love for him to shelter you, but this world offers few protections to abandoned baby girls. Even fewer to women cast out from the serai by their pashas. Fewer still to those who betray their masters. For them, there are only watery graves.”
“Better a grave than this living death,” I counter. “I cannot grow old here. I can no longer wear the mask of love for another when love has shown me its true face.”
Si’la smiles enigmatically. The flames in her eyes diminish, and she disappears.
Khayyam
I’m a creature of habit. Painful ones. Yesterday I spent what can only be described as a romantic afternoon with Alexandre, but even as I’m on the way to meet this charming French boy, I can’t stop myself from checking Instagram. Of course, I find more shots of Zaid getting friendly with Rekha.
What did I expect? I swear, I’m going to unfriend him on everything. Tomorrow.
I slip my phone into my bag as I turn the corner. I spot Alexandre sitting at the corner table of Café de Flore. He doesn’t see me yet, so I take a moment to study him. His sienna eyes are hidden behind the same tortoiseshell sunglasses he wore when we first met. He’s oozing a kind of French languor—he’s slouched back, legs in skinny khakis stretched out in front of him, crossed at the bare ankle as he drinks a cup of coffee and watches the world pass by. There’s a hint of stubble along his chin and jaw. He’s at ease. Content with himself. Zaid is the same way, always comfortable wherever he is because he carries that sense of self with him. I guess I have a type—the opposite of me.
As I walk up, he grins demurely, then stands to kiss me on both cheeks.
“Salut.”
“I was surprised you picked here to meet,” I say.
He gives me a quizzical look as we settle into our seats.
“Café de Flore? It’s a little touristy and cliché, don’t you think?”
“It’s August in Paris. Everything is touristy and cliché,” he says with a smirk.
The waiter comes by, and I order