By the time I’d turned 15, the world seemed to become muted—the skies weren’t vibrant, and the stars seemed less enchanting. No matter how hard I tried to follow the promise I’d made to myself, I couldn’t hold my tongue when I sat beside Father in the throne room, and made remarks to nobles about how petty their squabbles were more times than I could count. Father chastised me often for speaking so freely, his furrowed brows marred in my mind. Even Mother had discussions with me, trying to help me reign in the words that spilled from my mouth. To top it all off: I’d become the main target of Jamila’s anger at social gatherings, when boys finally mustered up the courage to approach me. The gatherings used to be a way for me to meet the other nobility in the bordering lands, and attempt to befriend them to one day merge the kingdoms by building a lasting relationship and good favor with their people. Idris always joined me, standing dutifully by my side—looking back, that may have played a role in how often I was approached. I hadn’t filled out entirely, but I was surely more desirable by men’s standards. I could see how their eyes lingered on my face, or how they watched me in contemplation when music for dances began to play. Idris was like a personal guard dog, of sorts—blessed with more height and a bit more meat on his bones at nearly 17 years-old. He had a head and a half of height on me, and his still-wiry figure was probably intimidating to look at. I didn’t mind, though, because he was still the gentle boy I’d known at age 8–when I was the one with the height.
I stood against a wall contemplating which boys were the most attractive as Fatiha faced Idris and I, discussing her new silken robe. She looked marvelous in it, as the jade silk clung to her curves and the waistline hit just the right part of her bodice to accentuate them. Fatiha was a woman now, fully fleshed out and easy on the eyes. I smiled faintly, looking past her as boys ogled her body. With a slight tug on Idris’ sleeve, he met my eyes and looked past my friend. I didn’t have to look to know his gaze had narrowed, as I heard his feet shift to broaden his stance. The sight of the taller boy, closest to the wine table, hunching his shoulders and scratching his nose as he leaned in to whisper to his friend was delightful. The other, more handsome of the two, leaned in to whisper back, and they had a conversation of their own going now. Fatiha continued telling me about her father’s acquisition of the article of clothing obliviously, her kind eyes lit with adoration for the efforts it took him.
With my worries for Fatiha’s safety contained, I could look her in the eyes once more as we discussed how long it took to make her robe—a whopping two years, as the worms’ silk could only be harvested in early spring. I smiled wider and raised my eyebrows, taking in the buttery feeling of the sleeve she offered out to me, upon my request to feel the garment for myself. Idris sniffed, scratching his own nose and eyeing the sleeve with hidden disgust. I could tell he thought such a thing to be exorbitant when she named the price of the robe, even my own lips parted in amazement. Mid-conversation, Himaya showed up to lead Fatiha over towards another group of nobles to socialize with, offering me a greeting before gracefully disappearing with her sister. Alone with Idris, I sighed as I watched the boys from before move towards Fatiha and her sister.
“Do you think I’ll ever get married?” I asked Idris, watching the boys weasel their way into conversation with the sisters. He bristled at my question, shrugging his shoulders up as he replied.
“I’m sure you will, Princess.” I looked at him with annoyance, though I knew he only used my title in public settings. It always bothered me, how he said it.
“Then why don’t the boys approach me the same way they approach Fati?” I asked, my voice giving away my hurt. Idris looked at me with pity, his stomach clearly in a knot.
“Because they’re stupid.” He replied in a low voice.
I looked up to my left again, meeting Idris’ gaze and studying his eyes. Ever the same, they drew me in. A weak smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I watched his familiar features. He always returned my looks with such doting expressions when he wasn’t bantering with me.
As if on cue, a snarky laugh echoed through the viewing room of the Alwathis’ villa. I tore my eyes from Idris, my mood dampening once more, as I eyed Jamila cackling with a boy. His friend, not too far from him, seemed to have a gaze that lingered on me. Another bristle from Idris. I offered a polite, well-rehearsed smile, and he looked from me to my chaperone. He seemed to steel his resolve as he approached. No longer was Jamila laughing, her eyes were steadied on me and a scowl replaced her wicked smile. The young man, just as tall as Idris, had tawny skin the same shade as mine and eyes of hazel. His curls were tightly coiled, styled to fall back from his face, with a square jawline and broad shoulders. Though still lanky, he had potential to be very handsome. Fine rings sat on his fingers, their jewels glimmering with the light as he walked up to Idris and I.
“Al’Hala.” The boy said, offering a deep bow. I kept my smile, trying not to mind the scoff that came from Idris. As his eyes fell on my friend once more, his shoulder stiffened a bit.
“I don’t believe I know your name.” I said to him.
“Murabiy, Your Highness.” He replied, a small smile pulling at his lips as his gaze returned to mine.
I was enchanted by the man, and my smile came more naturally as we spoke. For once, a boy was able to talk to me for more than three minutes. For once, a boy actually handled my remarks with tact. My humor—Father’s humor—made him laugh, and his eyes shone with similar vibrance as mine. Even with Idris beside me, Murabiy held his ground. He’d throw in an occasional compliment here and there, making my cheeks grow hot or bring a laugh from my lips. Idris was crossing his arms now, surveying the room as if he were a wolf surveying his territory. The men’s eyes would meet occasionally, Murabiy holding his own despite Idris’ scrappy demeanor.
I was lost in conversation long enough to not notice we’d gained a new member: Jamila.
“Princess.” Jamila said, her voice laced with false kindness. “A pleasure to see you outside of the sparring grounds.”
Her words seemed genuine, but I thought knew the tactics she used by now. She’d always try to paint me as some kind of brute, a wild animal to be tamed by whichever boy had finally worked up the guts to speak to me. Anything she could do to make a possible suitor run with their tails between their legs, she wasn’t beneath doing it. Ever since I stopped her brothers from picking on Idris, she’d made it her personal goal to make me the source of her entertainment.
“A pleasure to see you outside of the study, Jamila.” I replied, my own words came out sickly-sweet.
“Have you been teaching your lapdog any new tricks?” She asked, looking over to Idris.
A problem.
I couldn’t distinguish the look on her face: something similar to a child eyeing a toy they wanted in a shoppe, perhaps. Her words were nothing short of insulting, though her face betrayed that. I’d never understood her.
“I find it petulant to reduce my subjects to an animal’s likeness, Jamila.” I warned, keeping my diplomatic smile.
“And I find it pathetic that you’ve kept such a thing around for so long…found in his own soil, you’ve really cleaned him up, you know.”
I could feel Idris growing more annoyed by the young woman’s words, and Murabiy becoming more confused by the conversation’s direction. While Idris kept his eyes locked on Jamila with vitriol, Murabiy scanned my face. I beckoned him to stay with my eyes, wishing I could reassure him that it would all be over soon—but I had bigger fish to fry.
“Ever the elitist, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Hardly. I just find it disheartening to see that the Royal Family continues to wed those of lowly-birth.” Jamila spat.
Oh no. Oh no, oh no.
I looked at Murabiy. His eyes had filled with an even deeper sense of confusion and concern from Jamila’s words. I almost spoke to him, but Idris let out a scoff as if he was going to speak up on my behalf.
He’s not my husband. He’s not my husband. I tried to convince him with my eyes.
I leaned towards Jamila, taking her forearm gently in my hand and smiling sweetly.
“I find it revolting that you always show up whenever I’m with company, Themaz. Don’t you know better than to interrupt royalty when they’re speaking?” I asked, keeping my tone level though with an undercurrent of scorn. Maybe tit-for-tat elitism would work.
At that point, Murabiy had taken a few steps back. He’d gotten the wrong idea, and Jamila had already won. He was disinterested, now, and I wouldn’t be able to get a single suitor with her around. I almost dragged her out of the viewing room and spat on her. She looked at me, daring me to do more than kindly threaten her—and how I wanted to. But I had a reputation to upkeep, not just my own; my family’s. I released her forearm, imagining Father’s scorn if he heard I’d done something to Jamila again, and looked back at her. The diplomatic smile I wore wiped from my face in an instant after Murabiy turned around and returned to his friend.
My hand tightened a bit around her forearm as I spoke, “You’re truly a nuisance.” I hissed, forcing myself to release her arm in an act of mercy.
“The feeling is mutual, Your Highness.”
She looked at Idris in a way I couldn’t describe at the time—but looking back, it was territorially. She saw Idris as nothing more than a toy, an object for the taking, and in my confused state of rage, I brooded silently as she walked away. What angered me more than her insinuation of me being wedded to Idris was the way she hurled insults at him. I cursed her under my breath, and looked to my friend concernedly. He stood tall, with his chin high—but his eyes. His eyes showed the hurt he felt from Jamila’s words, like someone had stabbed him in the chest.
I tugged his sleeve, and walked towards the exit of the viewing room. I heard his footsteps following behind me, pausing only once before quickening and coming to my side. Idris opened the large birch door leading outside, and I felt the late-fall’s breeze nip at my cheeks. With a sigh, I looked at Idris as the door closed behind him. He looked at me, his eyes still filled with the same hurt, and I began walking towards the Alwathi’s garden. He followed, joining me on a secluded bench by a small patch of irises. The flowers always looked so weak, so pathetic to me—but I empathized with their appearance in that moment. Just like their drooping petals, I was weak and pathetic in my ability to stave off that wicked bitch.
“I’m sorry, Idris.” I murmured. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the irises before me. “She always says such horrible things about you…”
Idris loosened a shaky breath, leaning forward on his knees as he looked at me.
“It’s not your fault that she’s as imprudent as they come. She’ll face consequences for her ways soon enough. I’m sorry that my presence prevented you from getting to know that…guy.” His voice turned from playful to bitter as he spoke, and he brought his hand to his mouth to rub it after he spoke.
“You aren’t to blame…” I replied.
Jamila was to blame.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Jamila was the one who kept ruining my opportunities to meet suitors.
Every social event I was invited to, she was sure to show up at. I hated it more than anything. Finally, I tore my eyes from the flowers and looked at him. I saw the disdain in his eyes, and it was all internalized anger. He trulyfelt responsible for what had just happened, and I felt my temper getting the better of me.
“Stop.” I chided him, my voice low and threatening. “You’re being too self-centered. Stop blaming yourself.”
He looked at me with a pained smile, nodding his head as he took his hand from his mouth. His eyes found the sky, watching as the clouds passed.
“I suppose I am…” he said softly. I was irate at that point.
Irate at Jamila. Irate at my inability to act.
Irate at the way I had to keep calm; keep modest, to prevent Father from chastising me again. Deep down, I was irate with myself. The last time something like this happened, I told Jamila she looked like a cow in her gown. Of course, I got punished by having to help Uncle put his armor on for three weeks.
My arms burned at the thought of having to do it again, and I sighed.
“You’re too harsh on yourself, Idris. You’re essentially a noble now, you mustn’t let how we met dictate how you see yourself.” I explained. Idris leaned into the back of the bench with an annoyed huff, I’d struck a nerve.
“You can’t say things like that.” He retorted, his eyes seeming to grow more hate-filled. “I’m no noble, and if I hadn’t met you…” he almost shuddered at the thought, and I did as well. I sighed, and tightened the shawl I wore around my shoulders as I leaned forward on my own knees.
We sat in silence for a long time after that, until the nobles started walking out of the villa and giving their goodbyes. I watched them, wishing I could have said farewell and hugged the young man I’d spoken to earlier. He was hand-in-hand with one of Fatiha’s friends, now, leading her towards the other end of the garden. I stood from the bench, folding my arms and hugging myself tightly.
Loneliness whispered in my ear once more: you’ll never be a bride, at this rate.
—————————————————————————————————————————
I had grown tired of waiting for an opportunity to speak to men at social events, only to have Jamila ruin any chance I had the moment they arose. I was halfway through the Northern wall, wearing a commoner’s robe and head scarf to better disguise myself—a rumor of a brothel opening had taken the palace by storm, and I was intrigued. I had grown smarter after reading different novels, dawning a disguise to hide my social status and appearance. In an attempt to find a surefire way to acquire a suitor, I inched out of the wall’s crevice; it was much tighter than when I was a child, and I thanked God that I hadn’t filled out like Fatiha yet as I made it through to the other side. I descended the hill that the palace sat atop, shrinking my shoulders, and made my way into town.
The beginning of winter was always a busy time, as farmers sold off the last of fall’s harvests and merchants tried to make dhebals off of tourists. Rich Northerners sought warmth in Mahsul, as it never snowed down here like it did in Otlak. The bustle of townsfolk created perfect cover for me from the guards that sat lining each block, not seeming to take notice of the too-clean girl scurrying along the streets. It didn’t take much time to track down the brothel, as I watched countless men duck into a particular alleyway.
I walked down it, taking notice of a newly placed pink and yellow sign: ‘Madam Tayir’s.’ With a deep breath, I opened the door. The outside of the building was deceiving, as I’d have amounted it to no more than a shack with a living space above it at first glance. I was entirely wrong, as high ceilings with skylights were decorated with brightly colored scarves. The sound of stringed instruments and women singing filled the air, as the fires on both sides of the building took the edge off of the cold that had begun to numb my finger tips. At the entrance was a standing desk, and to its left was another part of the brothel that was hidden behind a curtain. Behind that desk, though, came a voice that distracted me from the women laughing beside a potted plant.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be here, young Lady.” Rang an androgynous voice. I whipped my head around, meeting its origin: a tall woman with emerald eyes. Her dark brown hair and medium complexion was a stark contrast to her eyes, with thick brows sitting atop them.
“Are you Madam Tayir?” I asked. The woman smiled a bit, and shook her head.
“Tayir is busy. What brings you to this establishment?” She asked.
I steeled my resolve, tugging at the headscarf around my hair to better see the woman before me.
“I’m here to learn how to find a husband.” I said shortly.
She chuckled in response, fanning her face with her hand before placing it to her chest to quell her laughter.
“Oh, darling,” she began, steadying her eyes on me. “None of us here are wedded—matter of fact, we deal with men whose beds are not empty at night. They find no entertainment in the women they lay beside.”
I blinked, trying to make sense of her words.
“Find no entertainment?” I echoed. The woman nodded and smiled, her eyes still searing into me.
“Indeed, and your lack of comprehension tells me all I need to know. Begone.” She said, shooing me away with the hand that sat atop her flat chest. As I opened my mouth to reply, a woman in teal walked out from behind the curtain to my left. She flittered towards the woman with emerald eyes, meeting my gaze for a split second.
“Habun, what’s going on out here?” She sang, her voice sweet and melodic.
“Nothing. I’ve got it under control, Tayir. She was on her way out.” The emerald-eyed woman replied.
Tayir looked at Habun with a soft smile before looking over to me curiously. My mouth, still agape, began moving before I had the chance to stop it.
“Wait, please…!” I pleaded. “Madam Tayir, I need help finding a husband…I have no other option.”
Tayir’s eyes filled with pity as she looked at me, and her head tilted slightly. She flickered her eyes to Habun, whose emerald gaze still burned into me.
“Habun…” Tayir hummed. “How could you turn down such a pretty, innocent little girl?” She asked.
“Tayir, she has no concept of what this place is—” Habun’s rebuttal fell upon deaf ears as Tayir walked out from behind the desk, cupping my shoulders with large and gentle hands. She guided me towards Habun, and I looked up at her. The teal-clad woman’s face was akin to a begging puppy, looking to her business partner woefully.
“We’re her only option.” She pouted. Habun sucked her teeth and shook her head, rolling her eyes as she crossed her arms.
“Fine.” She spat.
Tayir smiled down at me, taking me behind the desk and towards the curtained room. I watched a man as he walked out of another room, across from where I was headed, fiddling with his belt and putting it through the proper notch. I was confused by the sight once a woman followed shortly after, wiping smudged lipstick from her bottom lip. Tayir seemed unphased, and opened the curtain; in the room sat a small table of four women. The brothel’s breadwinners. I was too young to know anything about brothels at the time, and thought them to be nothing more than residents of the establishment. One woman in gold, another in red, one in pink, and one in orange. All playing a game of cards as Tayir announced my arrival.
“Ladies…” Tayir called. “I have a pupil for us!”
The women at the table all looked from their cards, half of them wore expressions of amusement, and half of them seemed put off by the notion. The woman in gold lowered her cards, leaning on the elbow holding them as it rested on the table. She had a deeper voice, but a feline-like appearance. Her amber eyes matched her garb, and she looked at Tayir with hesitancy.
“Tayir.” She said. “We can’t take in a girl like her—especially not one of her appearance.”
Tayir beguiled the woman, offering the same expression she’d offered Habun just moments ago. I almost spoke up, but Tayir beat me to it.
“Please, ladies. She’s desperate! She’s of marrying age, and wants to learn the art of courting…look at her.” She whined.
I was beyond insulted by being labeled as desperate, but I hid it by pursing my lips and looking down to the ground. My fists clenched by my side—the daughter of Al’Namir, called desperate. While I tried to steady my breathing at the notion, I heard one of the women let out a soft gasp. Another voice brought me back to reality, interrogating me—or rather, Tayir.
“Does she know how to cook?” The woman in orange asked.
I let out a scoff, picking my eyes up from the floor and meeting her gaze with my own.
“I can cook any dish in the Seven Kingdoms.” My voice was a bit harsher than I’d meant it to be, but it was true. My homemaking skills were polished beyond perfection.
“Then you must be daft at cleaning. Fadiy, get the broom. We’ll teach her to—”
“My cleaning is just fine,” I said cutting off Tayir, becoming more defensive as they fussed around me. The woman in orange froze in place, just as she was about to get the broom Tayir had beckoned her to get. She crossed her arms, looking at me with dismay.
“Do you know how to sew?” Asked the woman in pink. Her robe had been poorly altered, with strips of a different hue of pink added onto it for length.
To an unrefined eye, it was passable at best—but I’d been trained by royal seamstresses. Feeling my annoyance grow stronger by the questions being asked, I shot the woman a glare.
“I know your robe is poorly tailored.” I spat.
The woman in pink looked at me with upset, bringing her sleeve to her face and examining the additional fabric and the hem she’d most likely sewn herself. Tayir let out a breath—a laugh, and spoke up.
“She’s not wrong, Busis.”
Busis’ eyes moved from the sleeve, to me, and then finally to Tayir as her face grew hot with embarrassment. I felt vindicated by Tayir’s affirmation, thankful that she knew poor alterations when she saw them. Busis, the woman in pink, leaned towards the woman in red.
“She looks to be of high status, Taghrid.” She murmured.
My blood ran cold for a moment.
What if they knew? What if they had a sixth sense?
I feared word getting out for a moment, rumors of Al’Namir’s daughter spending time in a brothel to learn the art of courting a man.
Taghrid, the woman in red, nodded at Busis’ words.
“Maybe some coal around the eyes?”
Busis nodded, and murmured something about gold being a nice shade for my eyelids, and Taghrid pointed out my flat chest. Growing more suffocated by the women as they tore me apart, I spoke up once more.
“Men don’t like that I’m loud, and there’s a girl who keeps thwarting my attempts to engage with a suitor when one brave enough to handle me approaches.” I explained.
Taghrid seemed to grow stiff, and Tayir tightened her grasp on my shoulders with my words. Something about what I’d said seemed to upset them more than it upset me, and I watched them with wary eyes as Tayir spoke firmly to me.
“Never apologize for being loud, Dear. The girl in question is jealous of you.” Tayir said authoritatively.
“Each time my Father asks a man if they’d take my hand, they say I’m ‘too much’ to deal with.” I replied, my shoulders going a bit limp beneath Tayir’s talon-like grasp.
Taghrid stood from the table, and came inches away from me.
“And never apologize for being a handful, either.”
I couldn’t help but feel small in comparison to the two women, looking at Taghrid’s makeup and noticing the way it caked into the pores of her chin. Her blush was bright, and her lips matched her robe; while her brows were meticulously plucked. They were thin, but I could tell by the small hairs growing back that they were naturally luscious. She seemed to try to emulate the makeup styles of the North, similar to Otlakian women’s thin brows and heavy blush.
“If a man cannot handle you, then you’d be best suited to wait for a man who is mature to come around.” She added, drawing back. Her voice sounded firm, but I could hear remorse lacing her words. Taghrid was speaking from experience, a pained place of understanding.
“How will I know when that happens?” I asked.
“When you look in his eyes and see nothing but adoration, Darling, that is when you know he’s a man of good-faith.” Tayir said. “He will bring you peace on the darkest of nights, and desire to fight all of your battles in your stead. Similarly to how you feel when the haze of warmth slips you off to sleep, he’ll bring you such peace.”
I took her words to heart. I’d never forget them, etching them into my mind and repeating them to myself silently. With a nod, Tayir smiled as she studied my features. Unclenching my shoulders, she stood before me now. Her hand met her hip, and she stuck her hip out fluidly in an alluring pose.
“Until that day comes, your best bet of finding him will be with your body. Come, do as I do. You have potential.” Tayir beckoned.
I tried to emulate her stance, feeling awkward and gangly in comparison to the graceful woman in front of me. I looked at her with a hint of distress, and the women at the table she stood in front of chuckled or watched me with a smile. We tried for hours until I managed to mimic Tayir perfectly. Once they were happy with my poses, they tested different shades of makeup on me until coming to agree upon which shadows and blushes suited my complexion best. After wiping it all off, they sent me home with my pockets as full as they could manage with spare tubes and pans of all varieties. I left that day not only with full pockets, but a full heart.