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Christine

Chapter 80

The Arrival

My artistic inspiration returned to me, but it wasn't due to mental peace. Actually, my disquietude had spilled over into the part of my mind that longed to draw, and my fingers twitched until a pen was at last in their grip.

I was working with a sort of irritation, a dissatisfaction, like no matter how finished the picture was, it still didn't please me. Every stroke of the pen felt like a step toward a destination I would never reach.

I drew myself in Erik's arms, standing with our arms wrapped around one another. He was all right. Well-fed. Healthy. Rested. And he was free.

Free from his prison below the palace, at least.

I'd skipped breakfast to work on this picture. My mid-day meal as well. Night was fast approaching when Ibrahim asked to come into my room. I allowed him in verbally, staying seated on my bed, Ayesha sleeping behind me on my pillow. He entered. In his hands were two bowls of stew, one balancing on his arm.

"Would you be kind enough to eat supper with me? I am quite lonely." He gave a charming smile and moved one bowl to his free hand.

"How can that be?" I tried a humorous tone, but it sounded bitter instead. "You've been around people all day."

"And you did not come with me today!" He closed the door be leaning back on it. "You stayed behind."

"I've only come with you a couple of times, Ibrahim. You're the one who told me that joining you couldn't be an everyday occurrence."

I didn't mean for my tongue to be so sharp. He lost his smile and dropped his gaze, raising his brows. He went to his desk and placed down the bowls of stew.

"You cannot accompany me everyday because it would be a distraction to those I meet with. The times I've taken you with me, I've claimed it's a punishment for some disobedience on your part - that you like being left alone and getting out of my chambers is a great discomfort."

I looked down at my sketchbook. "I know."

Silence while I felt his gaze on me.

He cleared his throat. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes. Thank you." It was a lie, but there was no harm in eating.

He handed me the food. I ate in bed while he sat at his desk, chair at an angle.

"You are missing him," he said simply.

I nodded. Of course I am, I wanted to say, but resisted. When I put the spoon to my lips, I knew it was delicious. But my tongue could only taste blandness. Just as everything appeared gray despite the colors around me. Emotions bleeding into senses.

"Are you sure I can't see him again?" I asked.

"I am sure." He paused. "He is surviving. And working in the Chamber. That is all I know - all I can offer. I ask the guards but they don't have much to offer either. He is eating. Creating. And not complaining - not acknowledging the guards at all. He is not being beaten or tortured. The Shah wanted him punished but untouched. I wish I could say more."

Physically, then, he was fine. That was a relief, but it didn't mean he was all right. Mentally, he could very well have been falling apart.

Ibrahim sighed at something he saw in my expression. He set his spoon in his bowl and folded his hands in his lap. "I understand. I am concerned about him too."

I didn't respond. I merely played with the stew, moving chunks of lamb around with the utensil.

"And if it was the Prince in the dungeon," he continued gently, "I would be losing my mind. I do not want to imagine what you are feeling. The pain and terror must be unbearable. I am sorry."

I finally met his gaze. A question burned as I did so.

"Ibrahim," I said softly, "can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"When did you know - or rather, how did you know?"

"Know?"

"That you love Prince Izad."

Ibrahim's lips tilted upward at the corners. "He smiled at me."

I blinked at him. "That's it?"

"Yes. Well, I'd known both the Shah and Prince since we were children. The former Grand Vizier was my uncle - he died shortly after the late Shah. I was appointed immediately after." He took a bite of stew, swallowed, and continued. "The Shah and I are the same age. Twenty-six. The Prince is Erik's age. Twenty. And I did not realize my feelings for him until shortly after Erik arrived here. I don't know what it was - one moment, I saw Izad as a friend; and the next, he smiled in just the right way, and I fell hard. Then came the Prince's feelings - or rather, my noticing of his feelings. Apparently he loved me all his life." A glow had started in Ibrahim's eyes. "We spoke for a while in constant innuendos until he finally blurted out how he felt. A huge risk, but I am glad he took it. And Nadir - well, the Daroga quickly figured it out. And apparently his spies found out that both Izad and I greatly disliked the Shah."

I put my stew down, listening.

"So Nadir approached me with his grand plan - he took an enormous risk as well. Luckily for him, I have no greater wish than to see the love of my life on the throne instead of the arrogant, cruel man who currently sits upon it. I joined with Erik and Nadir and - oh, yes. Although I spoke a very little amount of several languages - French included - Erik was insistent that I learn. It's been almost two years and I think I have mastered the language." He grinned. "I am smarter than Erik takes me for, you know."

I smiled back. "I know."

He nodded, continuing his meal.

"So," I said, "if Prince Izad becomes Shah-"

"When," Ibrahim corrected.

"When," I agreed. "When Prince Izad becomes Shah, will he change the law so that you can marry?"

Ibrahim's spoon stopped in midair. He blinked, inhaled slowly, and lowered it back into the bowl. He looked at me again. "No. No, I don't think that can happen, unfortunately. There would be...too much resistance, I think. And that is putting it lightly." He'd lost any previous lightness as he spoke, turning instead to a melancholy introspection.

I glanced down, shame bubbling in my core. "I shouldn't have asked."

"It was a good question," he said. "But...no. No, he will be expected to have an heir. And that does require a woman." He chuckled humorlessly. "To be frank, I feel more pity for whatever woman - or women, I suppose - he marries. It will not be romantically satisfying for her." He half-smiled. "And he was the one worried about me sleeping in women's beds."

I noticed a hint of jealousy in his tone, but I didn't press it. Of course he was jealous. I would be too.

"You know, Christine," he said then, "I do enjoy talking to you. And do not be timid to ask me anything you'd like. I do not offend easily. And if you do offend me, I will either brush it off or let you know. Do not be afraid to speak freely. In fact, I would prefer it."

That made me feel a bit better. A bit more connected and safe. I felt my muscles unclench, if only slightly.

"Ibrahim?"

"Christine?"

"I will miss you."

He stared at me, waiting for more. I blushed.

"I mean," I continued, "if I ever make it out of here, I will miss your company. You've been a wonderful friend, and you will be in my thoughts for...well, likely forever."

He nodded slowly, and then regarded me with affection. "I will miss you as well, Christine."

A pause.

"Ibrahim?"

He grinned. "Christine?"

"You can call me Rose if you want to."

He cocked his head. "But Christine is your name, yes?"

"Yes," I said, "but...I don't know. I sort of liked it. You said it with affection. It made the title less frightening - like it was a nickname given by a friend rather than a slave name." I paused. "Is that wrong?"

He thought for a moment. "I...I don't think so. I think there is a power in reclaiming a name that another bestowed upon you without your consent. It means that the word is yours now - not theirs. And you get to choose who calls you by that name."

Warmth overtook me - of anything he'd ever said to me, that had been the kindest. "Thank you, Ibrahim, that means so much-"

A knock from beyond. Someone at his chambers.

Ibrahim's eyes narrowed. "Rather late, yes?" He glanced at the window, at the black night beyond. "I will be back."

I nodded. He got up and was gone for several minutes. In that time, I ate a few more morsels of stew, but the longer I took to eat it, the colder and thus less appetizing it became.

When he returned, there was a stunned, unreadable expression on his face. He stood in the doorway, staring at me with wide, dark eyes.

"What is it?" I asked. Unease sent tendrils down my spine. "What's wrong?"

"Darius is here."

"Darius?"

"Nadir's servant."

Oh. Yes. Of all of Nadir's staff, I'd interacted with him the least. I'd forgotten his name altogether.

"Is everything all right?" I asked, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Ayesha protested, but I couldn't mind her at the moment.

The Grand Vizier's lips thinned. "Something arrived for you from France."

My heart dropped to my feet. "What?"

"Something arrived-"

"No. Yes. I heard that." My voice was shaking. I stood. "Is it a letter from my father?"

"No," he said slowly. "Apparently he never wrote back."

My breath was uneven. I felt a sudden chill, icicles forming on the nervous vines gripping me. "Then what is it?"

"Come." Ibrahim watched me strangely and motioned with his head to follow. "Darius will escort us to Nadir's house."


The walk through the palace was torture. It was too slow. I wanted to run to the Daroga's house; my feet begged me to do so, but I somehow found the will to be patient. To my frustration, however, the closer we came to Nadir's home, the worse my anxiety became.

I focused on nothing - not Ibrahim or Darius or the servants that watched us pass - no, I didn't focus on anything except keeping myself calm enough not to cry or scream in my need to know.

What had come for me? What was it? If not a letter from my father, then what?

The moment we arrived at Nadir's house, I wanted to break down the door and run inside. But I held myself together and instead watched Darius put his key into the lock. He led Ibrahim and me inside, took us into Nadir's parlor.

I saw the Daroga first. I was about to blurt out the question of what came for me, when another form caught my eye, sitting on the couch to my right. I turned and looked.

And I nearly collapsed.

Sitting there, thin and baggy-eyed, was my father.