were too dangerous to reveal entirely.
Aqisa was waiting in the shadow of the large foyer, dressed in plain robes, her braids tied up and bundled under a turban. “You look dreadful,” she greeted him bluntly.
“It’s the eyes,” Lubayd agreed. “And the shambling walk. Were he a bit bonier, he’d make a convincing ghoul.”
Ali glowered at them. Between his nightmares and the race to finish the hospital, he was barely sleeping, and he was not unaware his appearance reflected such a thing. “It’s good to see you too, Aqisa. How are things at the palace?”
“Fine.” Aqisa crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. “Your sister sends her greetings.”
His heart twisted. The last time Ali had seen Zaynab was when he’d been forced to break the news of their mother’s imminent banishment. Though Hatset had remained grimly calm, telling them both to be strong—and that she’d be back, no matter Ghassan’s orders—Zaynab had broken down in front of him for the first time in his life. “Why couldn’t you have just listened to him?” she’d wept as Ali was forcibly escorted back out. “Why couldn’t you have held your tongue for once?”
Ali swallowed the lump in his throat. “Is she okay?”
“No,” Aqisa said flatly. “But she’s surviving and is stronger than you give her credit for.”
He winced at the rebuke, hoping she was right. “And you’ve had no issues getting in and out of the harem? I worry you’re risking yourself.”
Aqisa actually laughed. “Not in the slightest. You may forget it at times, but I am a woman. The harem exists to keep out strange, dangerous men; the guards barely pay me any mind.” She caressed the hilt of her khanjar. “If I do not point it out often enough, your gender can be remarkably stupid.” The humor left her face. “No luck with the infirmary, however.”
“Still guarded?” Ali asked.
“Day and night, by two dozen of your father’s most loyal men.”
Two dozen men? A wave of sick fear—his constant companion since the attack—rolled through him. He was even more worried for Nahri than he was for himself; despite their strained relationship, Ali suspected his father was still unwilling to directly execute his own son. But Nahri wasn’t his blood, and Ali had never seen anyone publicly challenge Ghassan the way she had in the ruins of the shafit camp. He could still remember her—small in comparison to his father, exhausted and covered in ash, but thoroughly defiant, heat rippling through the air when she spoke, the stone street shivering with magic.
It was one of the bravest acts he’d ever witnessed. And it petrified him, for Ali knew all too well how his father handled threats.
Ali turned on his heel, pacing. It was driving him mad to be locked up here, trapped on the other side of the city from his sister and Nahri. A sheen of dampness erupted down his back, and he shivered. Between the day’s rain and his roiling emotions, Ali was struggling to check his water abilities.
Automatically, his gaze went to the corridor that led to Issa’s room. At Hatset’s request, the Ayaanle scholar had stayed behind to continue looking into Ali’s “problem.” But Ali wasn’t optimistic. He didn’t have his mother’s touch with the erratic old man, and the last time he’d tried to check on Issa’s progress, he’d found the scholar surrounded by a massive circle of parchment forming a family tree of what must have been every person even tangentially related to Ali. He’d rather impatiently asked what in God’s name his ancestry had to do with getting the marid out of his head, and Issa had in turn hurled a globe at his head, rudely suggesting that as an alternative.
A shadow fell across them, the shape of a large man stepping into the shaft of sunlight coming from the garden. “Prince Alizayd,” a deep voice rumbled. “I believe your father made his orders clear.”
Ali scowled, turning to glare at Abu Nuwas, the senior Geziri officer sent to “watch over” him. “I’m not trying to escape,” he said acidly. “Surely, standing near the entrance is permitted?”
Abu Nuwas gave him a surly look. “A woman is looking for you in the eastern wing.”
“Did she give you a name? This place is crawling with people.”
“I am not your secretary.” Abu Nuwas sniffed. “Some grandmotherly-looking shafit.” He turned away without another word.
“Oh, don’t be rude,” Lubayd said when Ali rolled his eyes. “He’s only following your father’s orders.” He blew out a ring of smoke. “And I rather like