“Come now, you must only be a few months younger than me,” she told Gulalai.

“That is true,” Gulalai responded. “All teasing aside, I know what it is like not to be taken seriously because of your age. Seventeen and heir to our family’s titles means we are old enough to decide the fate of our people, yet we are treated like pretty little fools by our seniors.”

“Yes,” Durkhanai agreed. “Pretty little fools, indeed.”

“Though not fool enough to believe the Badshah orchestrated the attack,” Gulalai whispered, just loud enough for Durkhanai to hear.

“Laugh as though we are chatting about silly little nothings,” Durkhanai said through her grin, as though Gulalai had made the most hilarious remark. The ambassador mirrored her behavior, lightly tapping her arm.

“Clever little princess,” she said. “My father was injured badly; they aren’t sure he’ll walk again, but I know in my heart it wasn’t Marghazar.”

“And how could you know that?” Durkhanai asked.

“It’s much too obvious,” Gulalai replied, pretending to laugh still. “I’m infuriated by my father’s injury, of course—but I believe you and your family. Somebody is trying to frame Marghazar. And I don’t wish for my people to die in a false war.”

“Frame Marghazar—” began Durkhanai, but Gulalai cut her off.

“Let’s chat over chai, sometime,” Gulalai said, leaning forward to kiss both her cheeks.

Durkhanai mirrored the action. From the outside, they appeared as two young girls, gossiping about silly things. But Gulalai’s voice lowered to a sincere warning, one that sent a chill down Durkhanai’s spine.

“Until then, be careful around Asfandyar-sahib,” she whispered. “He’ll bring you nothing but ruin.”

Before Durkhanai could ask for elaboration, Gulalai was swept away by a noblewoman. Heart hammering, Durkhanai tried to understand if she could truly trust Gulalai or not.

She needed to acquaint herself further with both ambassadors before passing any judgments. But there was no time to consider where to place her trust because her grandmother was excusing herself, following a servant out of the room.

Strange. Her grandmother never slipped away from formal occasions such as this. Whatever it was, it had to be pertinent. Outside the hall, she followed the barely audible voices to a secret alcove in a darkened hallway. Her grandmother was speaking to a dirty soldier, streaked in mud and blood. But it was his face that frightened Durkhanai: he looked like he’d been kissed by death.

“Dhadi?” Durkhanai asked. Only close family members were permitted to bypass formal titles for more personal names.

Upon seeing the princess enter, the soldier bowed his head with respect and excused himself.

“Dhadi?” she asked, voice low. “What happened?”

Her grandmother placed a hand on Durkhanai’s face, smiling a forlorn smile.

“Meri jaan,” she said, not to worry her. “You don’t fret, go back to the party, attend to those in your court.”

“Dhadi,” Durkhanai repeated. Her grandmother sighed.