She had made a mistake; she should have stayed away from him.

Now she would have to deal with the consequences.

Durkhanai straightened her back, lifted her chin. She could deal with her grandparents and her people. She was the Shehzadi of Marghazar. There was nothing she could not do.

“Dhadi, Agha-Jaan,” she started.

They both looked up, gazes blank. The silent treatment. How unlike them. At least for Dhadi—it didn’t happen often, but when Dhadi was upset, she would yell and be done with it.

But now they were so upset they were looking right through her, like they didn’t even recognize her. Her heart constricted.

“Agha-Jaan,” she said. She went to where he sat on the bed and knelt by his side. He held a hand to her face, looked into her eyes.

“How could you forget your place?” Agha-Jaan asked, so unbearably sad. “Your people?”

The disappointment and shame in his voice alone made her want to cry. Durkhanai didn’t know how to respond.

How could she explain it to a man who had thought of nothing but his people for more than fifty years? How frivolous and spoiled she must have seemed when they discovered her secret. How selfish she was to put them in this situation.

But she wouldn’t let her guilt squander her questions. She could supersede her transgression with the knowledge of her father’s existence.

“My father is alive,” she said, testing them. She waited for them to give her looks of confusion, to ask her what she meant.

She stopped, registered the placid looks on her grandparents’ countenances. Realized her stupidity. The fool, once again.

Of course they already knew. Which meant there was truth to Asfandyar’s tale.

If her father was alive, that also meant there had been no attempt on her parents’ lives the night she was born. Another lie. A story, told to cover the truth.

But if her father was alive—where was her mother?

“Where is my mother?” she asked, voice thick with accusation. “Where is she? Where has she been all this time?”

“Meri jaan, come, sit,” Agha-Jaan coaxed, pulling her up. “Take a deep breath. You are too excited.”

She did as she was told, sitting on the bed in front of both of them, but anxiety was running through her in short bursts, her heart beating too fast, her breathing too fast, everything too much, too soon. She pressed her teeth together.

“My father is alive,” Durkhanai repeated. “You said he and my mother were poisoned the night I was born. What is the truth?”