Maram was quiet as she stared at the plate of food. It was all Kushaila fare—she wondered briefly if Amani knew how to cook this. It was bread—something she’d handled with ease the last time they’d been in a kitchen together. Cheese, some jam—Amani probably knew how to make those things from scratch.

Her traitorous heart wondered if Amani would like this place—would she approve of the paintings and the gardens and the fountains? Would she love the open air and the Kushaila arches and the honeycombed stone?

Amani is a traitor, she told herself angrily. She does not love or care about you.

“Your Highness?”

Her head jerked up to look at Fatiha.

“I can terminate her employment if it displeases you.”

Maram’s eyes widened. “No! Why should you terminate her?”

Fatiha fought back a smile. “You looked quite displeased, Your Highness.”

“She just caught me unawares,” she said. “She was … arrogant.”

And she had been—arrogant and defiant and unafraid. Only Amani had ever looked her in the eye like that. Even Fatiha and the staff deferred to her—she was their future queen, not their friend or equal. A strange frisson worked its way over her skin—she didn’t know if she was unsettled or excited. How many equals did she have? Idris, sometimes, when it wouldn’t cost him anything.

A knock at the door interrupted their breakfast, and a moment later a page walked in and bowed.

“Your Highness. Stewardess. The falconer is here.”

Fatiha started to rise to her feet. “I’ll deal with her.”

“Pardon, stewardess,” the page interrupted. “She is here for Her Highness.”

Maram blinked, uncomprehending. “For me?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

As protected as the grounds were, Maram was not foolish enough to go traipsing around the property with Aghraas alone. They took three guards with them and Maram brought a small blaster, strapped at her hip beneath her jacket besides. The falconer seemed even grander on her horse, her seat comfortable and easy. Her body swayed with the horse’s easy gait, and she held the reins in one hand, the other braced against her thigh. She wore black and gray, her sleeves long and the vambraces Maram saw yesterday gone. Her many braids spilled down her back instead of being bound up by a single clip. There was a collection of braids that sprouted from her crown that were a shocking white, as if someone had terrified her once, and only a sliver of her had aged.

Maram watched her from the corner of her eye as she led them through the estate as if it were her own.

“Where are you from, Lady Falconer?” she asked.

“Aghraas will do, Your Highness,” she replied.

Maram’s mouth twisted, just a little. She did not like the familiarity of calling a person by their name if she could help it.

“You did not answer the question,” she said instead.