I dropped into the vanity seat and covered my face. I wondered if this was what Maram had felt—sick and caught adrift, unable to wrangle her destiny into place. A moment later Idris joined me and took one of my hands in both of his.

“Before—before we were ever this, we were friends,” he said softly. “Allies. We can be allies in this, too, Amani. I would not see you come to harm—I would not see you in so much pain.”

“You think an alliance would be less painful?” I asked hollowly. “It’s a new word for the same situation.”

“With a new goal: survival. It’s all we have ever been able to do,” he replied.

It’s not enough, I wanted to scream. Nothing under the Vath was ever enough.

But I closed my eyes and nodded, turned my hand under his and linked our fingers.

“We have both survived worse,” he reminded me when my eyes opened. “And we have the scars to prove it.”

“Friends, then,” I said softly.

“Always,” he replied, then stood. “Take the bed. I’ll sleep on the divan.”

We were quiet as we readied for bed properly. I’d never really thought about the sounds one made when one settled into bed. The shift of clothes, the ripple of the duvet as it was lifted, the quiet sigh of pillows and body both as one reclined. But now the sounds filled my ears as I climbed into bed. Idris’s breath seemed loud as he blew out the last few lanterns—manually lit in what I can only imagine was a fit of romantic nostalgia.

At last it was dark and quiet, and I curled in on myself and tried to block out the world.

Friends, I thought, and squeezed my eyes shut. I had been friends with Idris before. We had always been friends. That was the problem, wasn’t it? We were one heart and one mind. We had been drawn inexorably together, against all odds, despite the threat that loomed over us from the very start.

In Kushaila there were degrees of love: gharaam, ‘ishq, najoua, la’wa, hoyaam. Attachment, passion, communion, anguish, madness. It felt as if we had passed through all of them. And it seemed to me there was no de-escalation. The old stories that invoked such words ended in union or death. Nothing would bring Idris and I together, and I could not submit to death. So what else was there for us? Submission and grief? Khula? Deep friendship? Could one go back from the pain of love to its serene origins?

There was no choice for me, I supposed. I would find out.

6