“No one has to know about the taint in your sister’s lineage,” Maryam said. “She is already my child in all the ways that matter. If you stop reminding the world of your heathen background, your father and I may be able to arrange good marriage prospects for her. Arwa could have the life she deserves. Or not. It’s up to you, Mehr.”

Finally Maryam released her. Mehr resisted the urge to touch her face.

“May I go?” she asked.

“You may go and think on what I’ve told you,” Maryam said. “But be warned. If you don’t make the right decision, I will have to convince your father to stop indulging you.” Her eyes were flinty. “No more dancing. No more heathen rites. His guilt won’t control him forever, Mehr.”

You can try, thought Mehr. This time she chose to be wiser, and held her tongue even as her heart hurt in her chest. Maryam made a dismissive gesture with one hand, and Mehr turned without offering her even the semblance of a respectful farewell. She swept through the doors, not bothering to hide the red marks on her face. Let the servants say what they liked. She’d had enough of her stepmother and her games to last a lifetime. Now all she wanted was to be alone.

Over the next few days Mehr got exactly what she’d wished for. The servants gave her a wide berth, mindful of the fact that Mehr was at odds with her stepmother. No one wanted to face Maryam’s displeasure by showing Mehr any favor. Arwa was kept away from her just like Maryam had promised. Mehr spent most of her time in her own chambers, waiting for the bruises on her face to fade and watching the horizon.

The daiva had been a herald of a storm. Mehr had been right about that. Every day the storm rolled in closer, building in waves against the sky. She watched the dreamfire glowing against the horizon, its deep ruby and amethyst flames flickering white at the edges. This was the first storm to reach Jah Irinah in a decade, and it should have been a privilege to witness it.

And yet, all Mehr could think of was Maryam’s sharp words and Lalita’s gentle warning. She couldn’t help it. The memory of Maryam’s nails tightening on Mehr’s jaw tangled together with the memory of Lalita’s voice as she warned Mehr to be careful, leaving a strange, painful dread in Mehr’s heart.

The Emperor was looking for her mother’s people. The Emperor wanted his nobles to drive out her mother’s people in earnest. People like Mehr.

Like Arwa.