Maryam was a true bloom of Ambhan womanhood. Her hair was sleek and dark, wound into a gold-laced braid that fell to the small of her back. Her skin was light brown, her eyes hazel, her face fine-boned and delicate. She looked exactly as fresh and maidenly as she had on the day Mehr’s father had brought her to their home, dressed in wedding silks with his seal hung around her neck. Even the hate in her eyes when she looked at Mehr, kneeling on the cushions before her, hadn’t altered one jot in the last eight years.

There was a tray of pastries and a jug of spiced wine in the arms of a servant at Maryam’s side. Maryam allowed the servant to pour her a drink and set some of the pastries in front of her as she continued to stare down at Mehr with a look that could have curdled milk.

Maryam sampled the wine. Everything else she left untouched. Mehr and the servants waited in complete silence.

“I thought we had an understanding, Mehr,” Maryam said finally. “Arwa’s upbringing is my responsibility.”

“I know that, Mother.”

“Not yours. Mine.”

“I understand perfectly,” Mehr said.

“Then why,” Maryam said, eyes narrowed, “did you go to the nursery last night?”

“Because Arwa needed me,” Mehr replied calmly. “It was a small thing, Mother. Nothing of consequence.”

“How easily you tell lies,” said Maryam. A look of absolute bitterness flitted across her features. “I know what you did. Filling her head with heathen madness is not a small thing, Mehr, and I won’t stand for it. I have worked so very hard to ensure that Arwa is better than her mother’s low blood. I have raised her with all the care I would have shown a child of my own flesh, if I had been so blessed. And I have done well, Mehr. She is good.”

“She is,” Mehr said softly. This, at least, they could agree upon.

“Because I have made her good,” Maryam said sharply. “Because I have raised her and molded her, and taught her to be grateful that she is a noblewoman of the Ambhan Empire.” Unlike you, Maryam did not say. She had no need to. “Did you know, Mehr, that every night before she sleeps, she kneels by me at my altar to worship the Emperor and Maha and give thanks to the mystics for their prayers? No? Of course not.” Her voice was a blade. “You know nothing about her, because she does not belong to you. She is mine.”

Maryam paused, then, to make a faint gesture at one of her servants. The servant filled her glass to the brim with a murmured apology. Maryam waved her away, her gaze still fixed on Mehr.