THE LIBRARY WAS DESERTED AND COLD.

I wasn't sure how I ended up here. I knew I stopped by my bedroom a few minutes ago, though I couldn't remember why. Perhaps it was due to the urge to see Maria; a little friendly, excited face would have made the otherwise dim mood better. After all, even the chatty girls had gone quiet due to the dining room incident, and no one took a glance at each other as they rushed back into their rooms.

I wondered if that meant that I wasn't the only one who'd learned my lesson. Perhaps all the other girls had, too.

When I opened the door to my bedroom, though, the place was eerily tidy and eerily cold.

"Maria?" I called. My bedroom was not big enough for voices to echo, but I could swear something called back out to me.

It wasn't Maria, though.

Slowly, I made my way to the bed. Maria had always done things neatly, and even the edges of the blanket were folded down without any creases. The place, I'd learned, was like this -- beautiful and dreadfully cold, miles that felt like worlds away from the way Khale used to bundle my sheets instead of smoothing them, and patch them up with rags from her own skirt.

"It's been a long while since I wrote to you," I whispered. "I wonder how you've been."

I knew that Maria kept a stack of parchment under my vanity and that my kohl was always on the left chest side of the drawer. But I couldn't bring myself to write a letter to Khale, for there was nothing else to say.

Khale, I feel that I will be stuck here forever.

Khale, I feel like a wooden princess with strings on my arms and a knife to my throat.

Khale, this place is stifling. I feel I may be sucked into oblivion and I'll never even know. You'll never even remember.

Thoughts, I'd learned, were louder than words. My bedroom was clearly empty, but it had never felt as loud.

There was a sudden pain in my hands, and when I looked down, my knuckles had gone white, and the sheets within my fist had crumpled into fine wrinkles.

Sorry, Maria, for ruining all your hard work.

When I looked back up, I caught sight of the thick, yellowed edge of a brown diary, barely hanging out of the wardrobe.

Frowning, I stood up. How strange. I swear I hid it under that red winter dress last time, but how...

As far as I knew, the only person allowed in my room was Maria; only personal chambermaids were allowed in and out of these 'potential concubines' bedrooms. But Maria was not Arabic, and I'd never seen the slightest inclination that she could read it.

Mostly, Maria had never been the type to look through my things.

But who...?

How many people knew I was staying in this wing, in this room, and how many of them had I talked to? The sum of both could be counted on both my hands.

Hurriedly, I ran to my luggage chest. Maria had once asked me whether she should throw it away as all the other girls had done, but I'd refused then. Firstly, I'd still been holding onto the hope of being sent home. Secondly, I didn't want any of my special things -- that beautiful picture of Mama -- to be dirtied by the Palace. It wasn't worth it.

At the bottom of the trove, the picture laid, still as neatly folded as it had been last time.

The tension in my shoulders relaxed.

If it had been a thief, it didn't matter so long as they didn't take the most important thing. After all, everything that was here never belonged to me. The ones who wanted to fawn over the future favored mistresses of the princes would naturally replace whatever had disappeared.

The worry was if it wasn't a thief, which was a lot more likely than the other.

The only other people who knew about the mere existence of this book were Maria and Prince Cairo. Maria thought the book was about history, and Prince Cairo could barely understand hello in Arabic, much less the contents of the book. As far as I knew, that book was only a diary of a nameless person who had once lived within the palace.

And yet, I was sure that that book had been flipped through, and that whoever had come in had specifically come for that book. Intuition, instinct, or paranoia, I didn't know.

All I knew was that, suddenly, this room didn't feel that safe to me anymore.

What happened after that was hazy. Maria never closed the windows at noon, something about airing out sickness, but the wind that was usually characteristically Persian brought cold sweat to my neck. Hurriedly, I grabbed the book and walked out of the bedroom.

Somehow, I'd ended up in the library.

As usual, there were no guards. When I cracked the door open, the hinges moaned and groaned, as old and unoiled as they had been before. The room's ceiling-to-floor windows were startlingly bright, and I had to squint to look at the floor.

The library, it seemed, was safe to enter in the mornings, and I added it to my mental list of palace survival rules.

I made my way over to a shadowed corner in the library, crouching under the tall shelf eaves, and stared at the book in my hands. No matter which way I looked at it, it was a thick, dusty, worn-down diary, and so far, I'd yet to see anything suspicious from its contents.

Perhaps I'm overthinking this. It won't be the first, and certainly not the last.

Maybe I've just gotten paranoid.

Whoever had gone in my room -- if there was even someone in the first place -- had left the book there, anyway. Perhaps they weren't looking for this particular item. Perhaps it was a girl or chambermaid who'd been looking for a dress or jewelry that had been swapped with one of the others' -- I'd heard a couple of girls complaining of this incident over breakfast, and it had certainly happened a handful of times.

But I couldn't resign myself to that thought without knowing for sure. And the only way I'd know was to finish reading.

It's just a book. What can come of it?

III.

She is so much of me, and nothing like me at the same time. I cannot tell whether that is good or bad. She is the most perfect, and also the most revolting combination of me and that man, and I cannot tell if I hate her because I had her with him, or if she looks like me. I wonder if the reason I dislike her is that I hate myself.

I should have stayed with Maman. I should not have run with this man, this man who knows nothing but sweet flowery words, this man who is an alcoholic with heavy arms and even heavier fists. I know that if I were to anger him, I would not be able to bear it. But that is only the physical pain. Right now, I already cannot handle myself mentally. I feel like I am about to go insane.

Is it selfish of me to run? Leave her with that man and run? Is too late to come back, Maman? Do you miss me, Maman?

IV.

I found that man with a woman the other day. I do not know who that woman is, and that man does not know what I've seen. I feel that my heart has died. I have always been told that I should listen to my future husband's explanations before I start arguments, as I am irrationally impulsive and emotional. Though I know, I do not think I need to listen to any more explanations. What more could a man be doing, embracing another woman in his bed?

Men can have concubines, but he is not a prince. We can barely afford to eat, let alone raise a mistress. Back then, he has promised he would have only me, even if he becomes a King. I understand now that I was too foolish.

I desperately want to run. But where can I go? I'm all alone.

V.

Khuda, it seems you are listening to me. Yesterday, a messenger from the palace announced they are looking for shorthands. Though most shorthands are men, I'm sure I can sneak into the crowd. It's an opportunity many men would take. I do not look particularly beautiful, and so long as I look down, I am sure that they would not be able to notice. The messenger said they would stop at the capital for further selection, and by then I will undo my disguise and sneak into the Palace as a chambermaid. If nothing else, I can always find work as a main in a regular, wealthy household. I have the skills for at least that.

I will be leaving for a very, very long time. That man will not know where I am going, for I hardly doubt he would care even if I said it. He would probably nod and come back to his mistress, who I hope he can support on his own later.

If I am being truthful, I do not intend on sending money back to this house. I know he would only use it for alcohol and other women, but I also know that she will not survive here without me. I do not know how I can communicate with her after I leave. I suppose it is appropriate to say that I will be leaving her forever come tomorrow morning.

I am selfish, but I cannot help it. I would like to focus on my happiness.

She is the only one who will know that I went to the palace. I will tell no one else. Hopefully, sometime in the future when she has grown from a girl to a woman, she will come to the capital and find me. We will finally be able to meet. Until then, my memories of her will stay here, while her eyes are bright and unbothered by the mud under her nails or the thin sheets in the winter.

Perhaps when she is older, she will loath me. Or perhaps she may understand.

Please understand, child, that I am not doing this because I want to. It is because I have no other choice.

Soon, the windows dimmed and the shadows turned black. It did not take long before the shelf I was leaning on turned cold and the wood began grating my skin through my clothes.

I closed the book with a thump, and couldn't help but feel pity.

Some men lived bad lives, and their women were infinitely more pitiful.

When I stood up, my knees wobbled and shook. How many hours I spent crouched under that shelf, I didn't know, but it was enough to make the back of my thighs sore and my back hurt.

I wondered whether it was possible to ask the butlers to do a little bit of sanding without getting in trouble. It was such a pity to give up such a nice cranny because of a few splinters.

As I was dusting the back of my skirt, a loud creak sounded from up in front of the door. The sound echoed throughout the room, and the book slipped out of my fingers by mistake.

I flinched. Khuda, must this happen all the time?

"Who's there?" someone asked, followed by a series of footsteps. "You can come out."

The voice was smooth and velvety, hoarse from exhaustion, and if I hadn't been so tense I would have been alarmed at how quickly I relaxed. "Prince Cairo."

"Aliya?" The voice drew closer, and from the corner of a table, Prince Cairo walked forward. He always looked clean, but today his sleeves were stained and his hair looked as if they'd been run through a thousand times. When he drew closer, I swore I smelled wine.

But who was I to ask?

"My apologies, should I have informed you before I went into the library?"

"It's no matter." He smiled. "You have my explicit permission to do so. What were you doing?"

"Just... reading," I said. The prince's eyes were suspiciously hazy. "The book you gave me last time was especially interesting."

"Was it? It's been a long time since you told me what was inside. What have you found so far?"

"Just that the woman lived a very miserable life. She had problems with her family, as most women do, really. She managed to find work in the palace."

"Really? And she saw that as a good thing?"

"You don't think it is, Prince?"

Prince Cairo looked down. "It may not be for a number of people, but I wouldn't know. I've never been out." Suddenly, he lifted his gaze and smiled. "Did she have a bad family?"

"I suppose."

It was quiet for a moment, before he said, "Did you?"

"Pardon?"

"Did you have a bad family?" he whispered. I thanked Khuda he wasn't intimately, trespassingly close, or perhaps he might have seen me shiver.

"No," I said. "I think I got lucky because I had the best parents in the world."

Prince Cairo hummed. "Coming here, you must miss them."

"I suppose, but there isn't much of a difference. They've gone away a long time ago."

The air turned silent. "I'm not sure what to say. My apologies," he finally murmured. His eyes were piercing.

"No need. The soil will give and it likes to take, and a prince can dig fifty feet underground and still not recover a bone if it does not wish to give it up." I smiled. "It's late."

Prince Cairo raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Will you not offer to accompany me?"

"I'm not sure what sort of accompaniment Shahzadeh wishes, though I do not feel that I am the correct person to find," I said. Prince Cairo's smile grew wider, and as I watched him laugh, I couldn't help but think--

Is it possible that, perhaps--

"Shahzadeh?"

"Yes?"

"Do you feel red is a particularly conspicuous color?"

Prince Cairo blinked. "Red?" he repeated. "Not particularly. The palace likes red. Why?"

"No reason. I shall take my leave." I smiled. "Goodbye, Shahzadeh."

As I turned, I couldn't help but frown.

So it wasn't him.

it's been such a long time since the last update, i hope all of you are doing well! thank you so much for the kind messages and comments; though i rarely respond, i promise i do see all of them and that they mean the world.

i hope you all enjoyed this chapter. i'll try my best to upload more frequently.

thank you and i love you all <3

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