I dressed with a steely resolve. When Tala opened the jewelry box, lying on a spread of velvet was the necklace from the bedding night. The emerald, framed by the stack of pearls, gleamed in the early-morning light. I saw Tala flush as though she’d made a mistake, and rush to close the box.

“No,” I said. “The necklace.”

Let him remember the trade he’d made, I thought. He had lost me in exchange for nothing. When I emerged from the dressing room, robed in green and black, he froze, his eyes fixed on the jewel at my throat. But he said nothing, only offered me his arm. And so away we went.

On an excursion into town or to the beach, he could ride his horse and go to different markets. Rabi’a’s salon was large, but not so large as that. And being High Princess and Prince of the Vath meant that we were placed in a position of honor, beside one another. I was spared, however—‘Imad was quick to call him over for a game of shatranj.

“Dihya, is there nothing else to do?” Buchra said. She was sprawled on her side among the cushions beside her sister, her head propped up on her hand. “It seems if we are not out of doors, all anyone can think to do is play shatranj.”

“What would you have us do instead?” Rabi’a asked dryly. “Play cards?”

“We could have a contest,” Buchra said.

Her sister eyed her warily. “What sort of contest?”

“Poetry,” I said without thinking. Their eyes all turned to me at once. “What?”

“We did not know you had a poet’s ear, Your Highness,” said Tariq.

“Perhaps not,” I replied. “But I do know the history of my mother’s estate. Poetry contests were the norm, were they not?”

“Indeed,” Rabi’a said. “Though perhaps few of us have the talent to judge poetry over the language barrier.”

“Then we shall raise the stakes,” I said with a smile. “A prize to the poet who can move us in their own language and provide an equally moving translation for my ears.”

“What is the prize?” Khulood asked, her eyebrows raised.

I considered for a moment, then tapped the emerald, and Idris made a harsh noise in the back of his throat.

“Have you a comment, sayidi?” I asked coolly, raising an eyebrow. The room was quiet. It seemed the state of affairs between us had not gone unnoticed, and they watched us rapt, eyes wide.

His throat moved, as if he were having difficulty swallowing. For long moments he stared at the necklace, and the longer he stared the warmer the flush at my chest seemed to get. When he at last met my eyes I felt as if someone had stolen the breath from my lungs.