The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath and the Dawn #2) - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,25
together as a gust of wind blew a shower of sand through his tightly marcelled curls. “You thought I would forget?”
“No. I thought no one would remember.”
He stared down at her, unblinking. His look the same—strangely soothing.
The blood rose in Irsa’s cheeks again. She swiped the sweaty hair back from her face—
And suddenly remembered that her braid was in a disheveled knot at the back of her neck. That she resembled a ragamuffin of the highest order. Her eyes wide, she unwound her braid and tried to arrange the sticky chaos atop her head.
“What are you doing?” Rahim finally blinked, his eyelashes as thick as brushstrokes across a canvas.
“Trying not to look like a street urchin.”
“What?” Tiny vertical lines formed along the bridge of his nose. “Why?”
“Because—I—girls should be beautiful!” Irsa shot back, dabbing her forehead with her sleeve. “Not sweaty, stinking disasters.”
“Is that a rule?”
“No, it’s—you’re . . . troubling.” Irsa couldn’t help it. He truly was. With his unceasing questions. And his unwavering warmth.
A light caught within his eyes. “So I’ve been told.”
Rahim had never looked at her like that before.
“I brought you something,” he said after several moments of steady deliberation.
“What?” She stepped into his shadow and dropped her hand from her brow. “Why?”
He reached into the brown linen of his rida’ and removed a scroll bound by hemp cord. “I borrowed it from Omar. So you have to return it. But . . . I thought you might like it.” He shrugged, then held the weathered bit of parchment out to her.
Still taken aback, it took her too long to reach for it.
Rahim waited, unperturbed, though she could see another question forming on his lips.
She beat him to it. “What is it?”
“Omar told me how you thought to put tea herbs and milk in your father’s water. This is a scroll on plants and their healing properties. I thought you might like it. I’ll bring some parchment and ink for you tomorrow. Perhaps you can transcribe it.” He shrugged again. “Or . . . I can do it for you. Though my handwriting leaves a great deal to be desired.”
Irsa was flabbergasted. Of all the things she’d expected sensible Rahim to do or say, it was not this.
He’d brought her a gift?
“I—well—I suppose I could do that. Yes. I mean, I’ll transcribe it. Not you.”
“You’re welcome.” He laughed; again, the sound was brittle in the air yet warm on her skin. When he turned to leave, Irsa felt a sudden urge to ask him to stay.
But to what end?
As though he could sense her consternation, Rahim looked over his shoulder. “Are—are you coming to the gathering following the war council tonight?”
Irsa started to nod, then stopped herself. “Will Shahrzad be allowed to attend?”
“I cannot see why anyone would object. Not with Tariq at her side. Nothing of import will be discussed around the fire. And everyone is rather curious about her. But, if she decides to come, it won’t be easy. All eyes will be upon her,” Rahim warned, ever the vigilant friend.
“I’ll be sure to keep her apprised. And . . . I’ll make certain nothing happens to her.” Irsa lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. Steady. Stalwart.
At least she hoped that was how she appeared. She could very well appear mad, for all she knew—sweaty-haired and clutching a scroll of curatives to her chest.
“I expected nothing less.” Again, Rahim paused in consideration of her. “Tavalodet mobarak, Irsa al-Khayzuran. May you have a hundred birthdays to come.”
“Thank you, Rahim al-Din Walad.”
He bowed with a hand to his forehead. When he straightened, he smiled that same almost-smile, as though he alone were aware of something important. “What you said earlier? You have nothing to worry about.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re better than beautiful.” Rahim took a careful breath. “You’re interesting. Never forget that.”
AS A ROSE UNFURLING
HE WOULD NEVER SAY IT. NOT EVEN AT KNIFEPOINT.
But Jalal may have been right.
The Caliph of Khorasan should not disappear for hours on end, without word or explanation.
But Khalid refused to remain at the palace, day in and day out. There were too many stories there. Ugly stories of blood and wrath and betrayal. The only places where Khalid had ever sought solace had been destroyed by the storm.
Or harbored memories he was not ready to relive yet.
At least beyond the palace walls, the stories were alive and real. Even if they were raw—even if they tore at his compunctions—he could face them.