painted on the walls: dazzling sandships darting through the dunes and the lush oases of Qart Sahar alongside images of its craggy bluffs and azure seas.
“You should see what happens when Nahri passes through,” Ali said. “The paintings come alive, the waves crashing over the beach, the trees blooming. The Nahid magic in this place is incredible.”
“Yes, it’s becoming more and more clear she’s cast quite the spell,” Hatset said lightly.
Ali leaned over one of the balustrades to check the day’s progress. At first glance, the hospital’s heart was barely recognizable from the wild, weed-strewn ruin Nahri had first shown him. The feral garden had been transformed into a small slice of paradise, along whose tiled paths visitors and patients might amble, enjoying the sweet-smelling water of the fountains and the coolness of the palms’ shade. The interior walls had been rebuilt, and woodworkers were putting together a glasswork roof that would maximize the amount of natural light allowed into the rooms. The main examination chamber was done, awaiting furnishings and cabinetry.
“Prince Alizayd!”
A voice caught his attention, and Ali glanced across the courtyard to see a group of shafit seamstresses seated among a pile of embroidered curtains. A woman who looked to be around his age had risen to her feet, a shy smile on her face.
She continued speaking when their gazes met, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Your Highness. But if you’re around later, we were thinking …” She gestured to the other women and several giggled. “We hoped you might be able to help us hang these curtains.”
“I … of course,” Ali replied, slightly puzzled by the request. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
She smiled again, and Ali could not help but note it was to a rather fetching effect. “We’ll be sure to hunt you down.” She resumed her seat, whispering to her companions.
“It’s fascinating,” his mother said dryly, “that in this entire magical complex full of building equipment, the only way to hang curtains is to rely on an unmarried, overly tall, handsome young prince.”
Ali quickly pulled his gaze from the young women. “I’m sure they meant nothing like that.”
Hatset snorted. “Not even you’re that naive.” She wound her arm through his as they kept walking. “But you know … it wouldn’t be the worst idea for you to burn a marriage mask with a nice shafit girl. Maybe then you’d actually visit your bed instead of working yourself to death.”
Embarassed heat swept his face so fast Ali felt he might actually burst into flames. “Amma …”
“What? Am I not permitted to want some happiness for my only son?”
He was already shaking his head. “You know I’m not allowed to marry.”
“No, what you’re not allowed is a gaudy ceremony with a noblewoman who could offer you political allies and heirs that might compete with Muntadhir’s—which is why I’m not suggesting that.” She studied him, her eyes soft. “But I worry about you, baba. You seem lonely. If you would like either Zaynab or me to make inquiries—”
“No,” Ali said, trying to keep the ache from his voice. His mother’s assessment wasn’t wrong—it was simply a part of his life he tried not to dwell on. Growing up as Muntadhir’s future Qaid, Ali had attempted to steel himself for what that future would look like—a violent, lonely life in the Citadel for Ali; wealth, a family, and the throne for Muntadhir. Ali had found it easier not to think about the things he’d be denied, the luxuries reserved for his brother.
But those were oaths he’d made as a child, too young to understand their cost. Not that it mattered now. Ali would never be Qaid, and he could not pretend resentment hadn’t worked its way into his heart. But there was nothing to be done about it. He’d meant what he said to Lubayd and Aqisa when they teased him about marriage: he would not make vows to an innocent woman if he didn’t think he could live up to them, and right now, he was barely capable of protecting himself.
His mother was still looking at him expectantly. “Can we discuss this another time?” he asked. “Perhaps on a day we’re not trying to force a meeting with a temperamental scholar?”
Hatset rolled her eyes. “There’s not going to be any forcing, my dear. I’ve been dealing with Ustadh Issa for years.”
Ali was glad she was so confident. He’d been shocked to learn the Ayaanle scholar his mother hoped could tell