lightly and quickly toward the Hall of Guests.
A cold fear grips me, tendrils wrapping around my ankles, pulling me back. But this is no time for my courage to fail. I have chosen my path.
When I reach the poet’s quarters, he races to meet me and grabs me by the arm. “We must leave now,” he says. “Your Giaour has been discovered.”
The blood leaves my face, my entire body.
I imagine Pasha’s cruel laugh. His fury.
The poet takes my satchel, the vestiges of my entire world, and hands it to his valet, who hastens their departure.
“I cannot . . . I cannot leave without him. There is no life without him.” I speak, but I am already a ghost.
“You have no choice. Your Pasha will kill you, too, if—”
I break free from the poet and run out into the courtyard.
Torches light up the arches between columns.
Pasha’s janissaries surround me.
Khayyam
It takes a sleepless night for me to come to terms with the realization that my restless uncertainty isn’t about what I want—well, some of it is—it’s really about Alexandre and what he wants. About who he is. And what we are together. There are moments when he’s warm and present and others when he’s aloof. Why does he hedge when I ask about his uncle? Why is he busy on so many evenings and kind of cagey about it?
I guess he has the right to be busy. Technically we haven’t defined what we are. Par for the course, given my relationship with Zaid. But how does Alexandre see us? Nerdy researchers who make out? An unusual, amusing summer fling? Transatlantic friends with PG-rated benefits? What he does in his free time is not my business. Maybe Alexandre doesn’t owe me any explanations, but I still want the whole story.
Facts are reliable. People aren’t.
I learned that from Zaid, who first ghosted me and now is bombarding me with texts. I want to believe this speaks volumes about his feelings for me, but in reality, it means nothing. The messages aren’t a hand to hold. They’re not a romantic picnic in a pocket park. Even so, there was another one waiting for me this morning.
I’m planning a surprise.
Zaid’s surprises are usually last-minute, like, Picnic at the Point—I got tacos and Mexican Cokes. Or, Meet me at 57th Street Books, the new issue of Ironheart is in! Besides our first date at the Music Box, I don’t think he ever really planned a single outing for us. Did he take our relationship for granted? Julie only mentioned that, oh, a thousand times, and I always made excuses for him. Maybe Zaid regrets how he’s treated me. This time apart, the pictures of Alexandre and me, maybe it all made him realize he was wrong.
Gah. I don’t like surprises. I don’t do well with ambiguity, either. I only count on what I know for certain.
Neither Zaid nor Alexandre should be a factor in terms of my future, much less part of the absurd conversation inside my brain. Where the through line is doubt. What if I try again with the contest and still bomb? What if I am a failure? Are these dumb romantic distractions enough of an excuse to crash and burn again?
Something is not right. When I walk out of my room, my parents are already dressed. They’re not lazily reading in the sun at the table on our balcony, their usual morning routine.
“Where are you guys going?” I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“We’re taking the train to Jouy-en-Josas to see an old friend of my mother,” my dad says.
“Who?”
“It’s a woman who went to school with Maman. I haven’t seen her since the funeral. She doesn’t haven’t any kids or much family left . . .” My dad clears his throat.
“We thought we’d pay a visit,” my mom adds. “Your papa heard that she isn’t in the greatest of health right now. It’s not far—close to Versailles. We’ll probably have a late lunch at the hotel near the palace grounds and then head back in the late afternoon or early evening.”