Part of her was loath to wash the scent of jasmine and rose oil off her skin, but she was not a child who could linger in her mother’s perfumes. So she bathed, and sat still as Fatiha oiled and combed her hair. The sun had set, and the light orbs filled the small estate. She always felt strange after visiting that room, and she felt stranger still now that someone else had been in there with her. There were times when she stood in her mother’s shadow and thought she could do the right and necessary thing, that she could uphold her mother’s dying wish.

The people depend on us—and us alone—to be their shield. Do not fail them.

The people are almost broken, she wanted to tell her mother. Because I stood by and let him do it.

“There you are,” Fatiha said, and draped the heavy braid over her right shoulder.

“You need not do a serving girl’s job,” she said instead of thanking her.

Fatiha smiled. “It gives me some pleasure,” she replied. “You will not believe me, but you remind me very much of your mother.”

Maram was too tired to be angry, so she gave her a half smile. “I don’t believe you. But I accept the compliment.”

“Good night, Your Highness. You know where I am if you need me.”

Many of the servants lived on the grounds, and there were times when that showed—a child’s laughter, the soft sound of song as they prepared for the evening meal. Maram shrugged into a light robe and slippers and descended from her chambers and into the garden. Aghraas had been at the estate for some time now, and it was moments like these—confronted by her as she was now, haloed by the light of the orbs—that Maram regretted her invitation. Aghraas looked young, as young as her, her braids down around her face and without the martial clothing that made her appear remote. Instead she wore a dressing gown and sat in the grass, her slippers in a pile to her left, with a book open in her lap.

“Your Highness,” she said by way of greeting. She did not stand.

“Falconer. You are reading.”

“I am, Your Highness.”

“What do you read?”

“Poetry, Your Highness.”

The Vath had poetry, but they were a society who preferred plays. Maram had grown up watching dramas and tragedies on the Vathek stage—poetry had seemed part of her mother’s world and so she’d read little and enjoyed less. But she knew Amani had a love of it, that the Kushaila prided themselves on their poetry possibly more than they did their ability to terraform moons.