Durkhanai knew they were all curious and frightened and exhilarated and infuriated by the foreigners. The hall opened into a courtyard where large bonfires lit the night and warmed the cool air.

The smell of food filled the air. Naan cooked in the tandoors, wafting melted butter and garlic, while coriander garnished dishes of butter chicken and large swaths of mutton legs with roasted potatoes. Chapli kababs were stacked high with onions while carrots and raisins garnished dishes of lamb palau. The air was full of smoke: firewood, tobacco, and roasted meat, all swirling together to create a sweet charred smell.

This was her castle in the clouds. This was her home. The rubab played softly in the background, the melody as distinct as her heartbeat. The stars glimmered in the vast sky like sugar crystals in black tea.

She looked around, watching the people, those who were hers and those who were not, until her gaze caught on Rashid, the nobleman she was to marry someday. He was the son of the head of the Yusufzai clan, the most powerful people after Durkhanai’s own family. After an instant, he caught her glance, his ears turning pink as he quickly looked away.

She wished he would dance with her, do something, but he would never do anything so blatantly dishonorable without an official courtship. Their inevitable affection for one another was silent yet understood, and equally understood by both her grandmother and his father.

But Durkhanai had more important things to worry about. She couldn't understand how to exonerate her grandfather when they were innocent.

“Don’t fret, gudiya,” her grandfather whispered. “All will be alright, my smart little girl.”

Her grandparents left her to mingle. Walking toward the familiar faces of her court, she stopped by Laila Baji and played with her cousin’s new baby girl, a chubby little thing. Durkhanai rattled the chudiyan on her arm in front of the baby, who cooed and laughed in response.

Feeling a little better, Durkhanai watched the people from the ambassadors’ eyes. Her grandfather was eccentric, sometimes unbelievably cruel—as he had shown with ridiculing Asfandyar. Her grandmother, the Wali of S’vat was kind but quiet—stoic. She was always on guard.

And her people? The Marghazari were loud, lively. They laughed widely and ate continuously. It was the semi-barbaric part within them all: the lack of modesty and overabundance of pride. To talk, to dance, and to laugh, all exuberantly, the men and women together. They were entirely unashamed of their culture and had grown even more proud and obnoxious during her grandfather’s near fifty-year reign of prosperity.

Durkhanai could tell it bothered some of the ambassadors, to see the women so brazen, to see the dancing and the noise and the drinking exhibited by the elite. It was un-Islamic, but some traditions were hard to shed.

“Come, now, everyone join us in a dance!” her grandmother exclaimed.