Enjoy!

Ibrahim

Chapter 67

The Ice

"No, Ibrahim, she's just hungry. That's all."

"Ah." I passed Dilara to Azizah, who gave me a warm smile as she took her baby into her arms. "That's excellent to hear. I thought perhaps she hated her uncle already."

A laugh. "Of course not. Who could ever hate you?" She turned to her bedroom and walked through, shushing and cooing to her crying daughter. I watched as her door closed. She was so...herself now. Her high spirits and joy had returned, and she was back to who she'd been before her marriage to Saleh. What an incredible difference nearly two months had made.

And what a difference a mere five minutes had made for me. One moment, Raoul had leaned up to press a tender kiss to my lips, sending my heart souring. The next, he was staring at me in anguish and sending me home. The look on his face had not been unlike the one Izad had fixed me with upon telling me that our relations had to end. For his country, he said. People needed to trust their Shah, to love him, after the fiasco that had been his brother.

He had to be the picture of normalcy. Persia would not accept a leader who was sharing a bed with his Grand Vizier - at the very best, they'd dethrone him and cast me out as well. At the worst, we'd both find ourselves dead. He wouldn't risk his life - my life - that way.

He loved me. Always would, he said. But he wouldn't put our lives in danger any longer. Not when every eye was on him now.

So when Raoul sent that carriage for me, and only me, as the rest of my group was already gone, the loneliness and sorrow I felt was crushing. Truly, a force that seemed to squeeze my heart. I felt I could barely breathe. The thread between Raoul and me hadn't even been tied before it was severed.

It was Thursday now, five days after the party, and nearing midnight. My sister and I were both wide awake - her because of Dilara, and I because of what had occurred today. I'd been waiting the whole week for some sign from Raoul that he wished to talk. Nothing came. My dread and anxiety grew by the hour. I barely ate or slept.

I thought, perhaps, I would get the chance when the coach came to take me to Philippe's dinner. But when the coachman opened the door for me, Raoul was not there.

"Where is the vicomte?" I asked him, one foot on the step.

"Vicomte de Chagny instructed me to collect you without him." His voice was, as usual, emotionless and dry. "He had matters to attend to at home."

Heart sinking to my knees, I entered the coach. My legs were heavy, leaden as I entered and sat.

At the dinner, Raoul might as well have not even been there. I tried to speak to him, pulling him aside to request we discuss what happened. "Nothing happened. Now focus. We are here to spy, not socialize."

That pierced my chest.

I asked him if he was all right. If - we - were all right.

"Fine. We are fine, M. Ali. I am fine. Now get your hand off of my shoulder."

M. Ali. Not Egyptian. M. Ali.

That tore my heart completely open.

No smiles from him. No vying for my attention, or stolen glances when he believed I wasn't looking too. His eyes, once warm, welcoming plots of summer earth, were now icy pools of mud in winter.

I hoped, at least, that he would escort me home. Perhaps he was only avoiding the topic because we were near his brother. But when nothing of note happened between Philippe and Stephanie, he instructed the coachman to take me to my apartment alone. Nothing to discuss, he said. Nothing at all.

This, of course, was my fault. If only I hadn't danced with that girl, made him jealous, he wouldn't have kissed me. If only I hadn't deepened the kiss. I would take a hundred years of mere flirtation with no bodily contact or pretty words, than another second of this cold regard.

I'd try again next Thursday. Tell him what I was feeling - tell him we didn't have to go any further than friendship. But, Allah, I needed his friendship. It was the only thing keeping me...

Keeping me alive, I realized. It was the thing I needed to motivate me to continue on.

I had to let him know. He had to understand. Surely he wanted my friendship, too - just frightened, maybe, that I'd push him for more.

I'd settle for friendship. I'd give up anything romantic for just that. I would. I would. I-

No. I wouldn't.

I wanted Raoul.

I was falling in love with Raoul.

And the only reason he'd been so warm with me was because he was falling in love with me too. Perhaps this was what his platonic friendship was - this cold, dead thing. I couldn't handle that. He had my heart - I would suffer if I didn't have his. If that was selfish, I didn't care. I cared about nothing now except for his affection.

When the night wore on, and Azizah at last went to bed, I did something I hadn't done since I was a child. I closed my bedroom door. I went to my knees on my rug.

Allah would likely find my request disgusting. He would look away with revulsion. He would whistle a tune to drown out what I asked for, begged for. At least, that is what my father would say if he could see me now. He'd spit on me as I knelt and proclaim that I was no son of his, that Allah would abandon me here and now for asking that He let another man love me the way a woman was meant to.

But perhaps Allah truly was merciful and loving and kind. Perhaps He didn't mind who I gave my heart to. Perhaps He would listen.

I pressed my forehead to the floor.

And prayed.