window, watching the sun rise as Eshe snores from my bed. I slept hardly a wink last night, but that’s nothing new. During the scant bit of sleep I’d managed, there were dreams. When I try to remember them, it’s like reaching out to touch morning mist. They vaporize between my fingers.
But the Neverseen King was there, holding me like he’d held me last night. Jabir was there, and his voice echoed through my mind, telling me to give him a goodnight kiss as he bent, offering his cheek to me while my jaw throbbed and my scars tingled. They might have been separate dreams, or not. No matter how I try to recollect those images, they fade like the last note of a discordant song.
Protection.
Win the competition. Marry the Neverseen King.
I want the Neverseen King’s protection. But if I try to win, if I actually try to prove I have what it takes to be the sultan’s bride—his queen—am I playing right into Jabir’s hand? Not to mention that if I try to win, I will make enemies of the other women.
Why did Dabria leave?
The sun crests the horizon, spilling golden warmth into my room and onto Eshe’s face. I turn away from the empty courtyard, study instead the lashes fanning my friend’s cheeks, the way her mouth gapes open and drool pools on the sheets. Her hair looks like a rat has started to make a nest in it and then exploded across the bed. Her wrist is bent, curling her fingers beneath her chin.
She’s my first priority. No matter what happens.
Drawing the curtains closed so she can continue sleeping, I wait beside the door until I hear footsteps approaching outside. Quietly, I open the door, take the breakfast tray from the startled maid, nod my thanks, and shut the door again. I’ll not have some overenthusiastic wench waking my friend from the few hours of sleep she has been able to get.
There’s a folded note between the silver dishes. My ankle wobbles. I set the tray down quickly, careful to avoid rattling the dishes. Then I snatch the note and unfold it.
Stay away from the Neverseen King if you value your friend’s life.
Oh wonderful. Death threats from one of the other women. Probably Gaya or Fathuna. Dabria and Safya seem the types with more important things to do than threaten others, and Raha doesn’t need to write down threats; one glance from her is enough. Between Eshe’s skills and mine, I’m not too concerned about this threat, though it certainly is good to know that at least one of the women is attached to the idea of being queen.
But wait—there’s another note. It’s not folded. Just a scrap of paper beneath the note from the other contestant.
Don’t make me force-feed you. Eat breakfast. You’re a grown woman, and you can’t survive on air.
The corner of my mouth tips up. I set it back into a frown. “But what if the thought of food makes you feel sick?” I whisper into the air.
And yet, I eat. It’s not exactly an enjoyable process, and I leave most of the food for Eshe, but I do try. When I’m done, I feel a little better. Not as shaky, a touch less anxious. My thoughts come clearer.
More footsteps sound outside my door, and I open it before anyone knocks and wakes Eshe. A tall guard in a turban greets me silently. I cast one last glance over my shoulder at my friend, still sleeping soundly on my bed. Then my fingers brush the hilt of the knife at my waist.
It’s time for the third competition.
