When Mehr couldn’t stand it any longer she crossed the Hall, slipping between hurrying servants. She stopped before the dais and gave her stepmother a perfunctory bow. Maryam glared daggers at her.

“Let me talk to her,” Mehr said. “I can calm her, Mother.”

“Leave us be,” Maryam ordered, her hand still on Arwa’s hair, still and proprietary. “You’re only upsetting her.”

“I can help,” Mehr said. “And—I would like to say good-bye.”

“You aren’t needed here,” she said. “And you should be in your chambers. You’re still in disgrace, Mehr, like it or not.” Arwa had quieted a little. She was trying to lift her head. Maryam’s grip tightened, then softened again, as she stroked Arwa’s hair in a motion meant to soothe her. “Would you like one of my guards to show you the way out?”

The guardswoman to Maryam’s left took a small step forward. Her eyes on Mehr were hard. She was just waiting for Maryam to give the word, her hands flexing eagerly at her sides.

The women’s quarters were Maryam’s domain, the place where she ruled with the same assurance as a Governor ruled in the stead of his distant Emperor. Her servants were loyal to a fault, and their dislike of Mehr was an obedient shadow of Maryam’s own. But some—like the guardswoman standing before her—looked at Mehr with a hatred that rose not from loyalty or expediency but from a true rejection of Mehr’s nature, her choices, her blood.

Mehr looked back, then forced herself to look away.

The rage in Mehr hadn’t faded over the last few hours, merely hardened like diamond flesh. It was the only thing keeping her whole, keeping her standing strong, but it also made her hungry to hurt the guardswoman before her, or better yet, hurt Maryam all over again. Viciousness burned in her blood. Only the sight of Maryam’s hand against Arwa’s hair cracked the armor of anger inside her.

Maryam’s love for Arwa was a harsh thing, by turns tender and possessive. Mehr knew Maryam would continue to deny Arwa the Amrithi traditions that were her right. She would mold Arwa into the child she wanted. But she would also keep Arwa safe, which was more than Mehr could do for her sister, no matter how much she loved her.

The desire to make Maryam hurt the way she was hurting was pointless. It wouldn’t win her a moment with Arwa; it wouldn’t allow her the opportunity to say good-bye. All the power lay in Maryam’s hands. Rage would keep Mehr going until all this was over, but for the task of swaying Maryam to her will, the truth was a better tool.