IN THE MILKY EYE OF the moon the silhouettes of passersby merged into one gelatinous mass rumbling with sound; raucous cries rang out, laughter tearing through trees, lamplight flickering as people stumbled through the streets. The night was pure madness.
Alizeh suppressed a shudder.
It disturbed her always to be enveloped by the dark, for it brought to life a fear of blindness she could not fully rationalize. Her ancestors had once been sentenced to an existence without light or heat—she knew this, yes— but that she should carry the fear still struck her as most peculiar. Worse, it seemed her strange fate to be tethered always to the dark, for these days she moved most freely through the world only in the absence of daylight, when the yoke of duty had been removed.
Alizeh had emerged from Baz House long after the sun had been extinguished, and though the good news of more work for Miss Huda had done a great deal to buoy her spirits, Alizeh was burdened anew by the state of her hands. The day’s tasks had torn fresh wounds into her already split palms, and the strips of fabric she’d carefully wrapped around her injuries had grown damp and heavy with blood. Alizeh, who now needed to create five gowns in addition to performing her regular duties, suddenly required her hands more than ever—which meant her journey to the apothecary could not wait until tomorrow.
It was on aching feet that Alizeh dredged through the evening’s snowfall, arms tight against her chest, chin tucked into her collar. Frost grew steadily along the wet tendrils of her hair, unruly strands whipping in the wind as she went.
Already Alizeh had paid a visit to the local hamam, where she’d washed the day’s filth from her body. She always felt better when she was clean, and though the task had cost her physically, she felt it ultimately worthwhile. More: the night air was bracing, and the cold shock to her uncovered head kept her thoughts focused. Alizeh required a sharpness of mind never more than when she walked the streets at night, for she knew well the dangers posed by desperate strangers in the dark. She was careful to remain quiet as she moved, keeping to the light, and to herself.
Still, it was impossible to ignore the uproar.
People were chanting in the streets, some singing, some yelling, all too drunk to be understood. There were large crowds dancing, all of them working together to hold aloft what appeared to be a scarecrow; the straw
figure wearing a crude iron crown. Masses of people were sitting in the middle of the road smoking shisha and drinking tea, refusing to clear the streets even as horses whinnied, carriages teetered, and noblemen emerged from the plush interiors of their conveyances shouting and brandishing whips.
Alizeh walked through a cloud of apricot-flavored smoke, shook off an evening peddler, and pushed through a narrow gap in a group laughing uproariously at the story of a child who’d caught a snake in its hands and, delighted, had dipped the serpent’s head over and over again into a bowl of yogurt.
Privately, Alizeh smiled.
Some people, she noticed, were carrying signs—some held high, others dragging behind like a dog on a leash. She tried to make out the printed words, but none could be deciphered in the dim, flickering light. One thing was for certain: this was an unusual level of merriment and madness, even for the royal city, and for a moment Alizeh’s curiosity threatened to overcome her better senses.
She tamped it down.
Strangers jostled her, a few swiping at her snoda, laughing in her face, stepping on her skirts. She’d learned long ago that servants of her station were the most universally despised, considered fair game for all manner of cruelty. Others in her position were eager to remove their snodas in public spaces for fear of drawing unwanted attention, but Alizeh could not remove her snoda without great risk to herself; though she felt certain she was being hunted, she did not know by whom, which meant she could never let down her guard.
Alizeh’s face was—unfortunately—too easily remembered.
Hers was the rare exception; it was otherwise difficult to spot the difference between Jinn and Clay, as Jinn had thousands of years ago regained not only their vision but the varying levels of melanin in their hair and skin. Alizeh, like many in Ardunia, had yards of glossy, coal-black curls and an olive complexion. But her eyes—
She did not know the color of her eyes.
Occasionally they took on the familiar brown of burnt umber, which she believed to be the natural color of her irises, but more often her eyes were a piercing shade of ice blue, so light they were hardly a color at all. It was no wonder then that Alizeh lived always with a perpetual chill, one she felt
even in the sockets of her eyes. Ice sluiced through her clear veins even in the pit of summer, immobilizing her in the way she imagined only her ancestors could understand, for it was from them that she’d inherited this irregularity. The resulting effect was so disorienting few could bear to look at the girl—and yet, Alizeh’s face might’ve been more readily ignored had her irises only ceased to change shades, which they had not. Instead, they flickered, alternating color constantly; it was a problem over which she had no control, and whose provocation she did not understand.
Alizeh felt a touch of moisture on her lips then and looked up. Fresh snow had begun to fall.
She pulled her arms tighter across her chest and darted down a familiar road, her head bowed against the wind. She’d been growing slowly aware of a pair of footsteps behind her—unusual only in their consistency—and felt a frisson of fear, which she forcefully dismissed. Alizeh felt she was growing too easily paranoid of late, and besides, the glow of the apothecary’s shop was just up ahead. She sprinted toward it now.
A bell chimed as she pushed open the wooden door, and she was nearly shoved right back out by the crowd jammed within. The apothecary was unusually busy for the hour, and Alizeh could not help but notice that its standard aroma of sage and saffron had been exchanged for the mephitic vapors of unwashed latrines and aged vomit. Alizeh held her breath as she took her place in line, resisting the urge to stamp the snow from her boots on the rug underfoot.
Present clientele were shouting obscenities at each other, jostling for space while cradling fractured arms and broken noses. Some were dripping red blood from the crowns of their heads, their mouths. One man was presenting a child with the bloody tooth he’d plucked from his head, a souvenir from another who’d thought to bite his skull.
Alizeh could scarcely believe it.
These people needed baths and surgeons, not an apothecarist. She could only imagine they were either too stupid or too drunk to know better than to seek aid here.
“All right, enough,” boomed an angry voice over the crowd. “The lot of you: get out. Out of my shop before you—”
There was the abrupt sound of glass shattering, vials knocking to the ground. The same booming voice shouted renewed epithets as the crowd grew only more agitated, and there was a veritable stampede for the door
when he brandished a cane and threatened not only to horsewhip the group of them, but to turn them over to the magistrates on charges of public indecency.
Alizeh flattened herself as best she could against the wall, so successful in her aim that when the horde had finally cleared, the shopkeeper almost missed her.
Almost.
“Get out,” he barked, advancing on her. “Get out of my store, out, you heathen—”
“Sir— Please—” Alizeh shrank back. “I’m here only for some salve and bandages. I’d be terribly grateful for your help.”
The shopkeeper froze, the angry expression still etched onto his face. He was a narrow man, tall and wiry, with dark brown skin and coarse black hair, and he very nearly sniffed her. His assessing eyes took in her patched
—but clean—jacket, the tidiness of her hair. Finally he took a deep, steadying breath, and stepped away.
“All right, then, what’ll it be?” He moved back around the main counter, staring down at her with large, ink-dark eyes. “Where’s the damage?”
Alizeh clenched her fists, stuffed them in her pockets, and tried to smile. Her mouth was the only part of her face unobscured, and it was as a result a point of focus for most people. The apothecarist, however, seemed determined to stare at her eyes—or, where he thought her eyes might be.
For a moment, Alizeh was unsure what to do.
It was true that, from the outside, Jinn were mostly undetectable. It was in fact their stunning physical resemblance to Clay that had made them the biggest threat, the more difficult to suspect. The Fire Accords had attempted to bring organization to these sorts of problems, but under the veneer of peace there remained always an uneasiness among the people—an ingrained hatred of their kind, of their imagined association with the devil
—that was not easily forgotten. Presenting strangers with clear proof of her identity had always inspired in Alizeh a halting fear, for she never knew how they might react. More often than not, people could not hide their contempt; and more often than not, she did not have the energy to face it.
Quietly, she said, “I’ve only a few scrapes on my hands that need tending—and a few blisters. If you’ve fresh bandages and a salve you’d recommend, sir, I’d be most obliged.”
The apothecarist made a sound in his mouth, something like a tsk, drummed his fingers on the counter, and turned to study his walls; the long wooden shelves housed stoppered bottles of untold remedies. “And what of your neck, miss? The cut there seems severe.”
Unconsciously, Alizeh touched her fingers to the wound. “I beg—I beg your pardon, sir?”
“You have a laceration at your throat, of which I doubt you’re unaware. You must be feeling the pain at the incision, miss. The wound is likely warm to the touch, and”—he peered closer—“yes, it looks like there’s a bit of swelling. We must get ahead of any major infection.”
Alizeh went suddenly rigid with fear.
The Fesht boy had cut her with a crude, dirty blade. She’d seen it herself, had examined the tool in her own hand; why had she not realized there’d be consequences? Certainly, she’d been unwell and in pain all day, but she’d compartmentalized the sensations, experiencing it all as one large unpleasantness. She’d never had a chance to pinpoint the many discrete origins of her discomfort.
Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut and grabbed at the counter, steadying herself. She could ill afford much of anything these days, but she could least afford to be sick. If she caught a fever—if she could not work—she would be turned out onto the street, where she’d doubtless die in the gutter. It was this cold reality that propelled her actions every day, this larger instinct that demanded she survive.
“Miss?”
Oh, the devil always did know when to pay a visit.
