chapter two

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THE ROAD TO THE SQUARE
was the nicest one you'd find in Babylon; which wasn't a hard title to earn, considering it was the only one paved with actual stones and not falling sticks. But considering the parties that would pass. it was no surprise that the mayor would only be willing to repair the street that the King's men would see.

Our mayor was very proud to be a suck up, and that was his only tolerable quality.

By the time I reached the piaza, it was especially crowded, the smell of perfume and kohl incense permeating the air. There were girls who looked as if they hadn't even reached fifteen yet, still holding hands with their mamas (their fathers and brothers no doubt left behind for tonight) and girls old enough to look like an actual mama, all dolled up in colorful scarves and dresses.

An image of a thousand cocking peacocks flashed through my head, all flaunting their feathers in hopes of attracting a mate, and I bit my lip to conceal my laugh.

Falling behind a girl wearing neon green headscarf, I shoved myself in between two fussing mamas, straining to see above the bobs of colorful heads.

When you consider the fact that I was short — very short, really, but not exactly very small — and the fact that nearly all of Babylon was now sandwiched into a shoving, sweaty mess, it was impossible.

"Why are we all queuing here? Where are the princes?" One girl whisper-shouted to her friend, her bangles jingling.

"There aren't any princes," the other one whispered back, her voice just loud enough for me to hear. "The Princes send delegates here, handpicked ones, one for each of them. See the counter over there?"

I did not.

"Yes."

"Okay, see those three people sitting there? The one in the red, green, and blue robes? Those are each of the princes' delegates; the red one is for Prince Raza — he's my pick, by the way, so if they pick both of us, you need to choose a different prince — the green robed man works under Prince Finn, and the blue one, Prince Cairo; don't choose him, though, he's a concubine's son."

"Oh. So technically, he's not royal?"

"Well, I mean—"

"Silence!" A loud voice cut the crowd, and as people began to hush and descend from their tip toes, I could just barely make out a man in a red robe slamming his hand down on the table.

Oh. They changed delegates?

Most of the time, the people sent as delegates were tall, tan, handsome men, their clothes screaming noble and royal and rich by the handful. They were all soldiers, of course, and would boast it to everybody before the selection process even began.

This one and — a quick glance at the confused frowns in front of me — all of the new delegates, it seemed, did not embody that.

The man in red was short and portly, with a thick moustache and a curly little strand of hair falling from his headscarf. From head to toe he was garbed in bright, crimson red, and as he glared into the crowd, I saw the apples of his tan cheeks turn red, too.

"You're all young women vying for a spot to become a member of the royal family. You either keep your silence, or I'll make sure you won't get a shred of a chance for that spot. And— hey, you there, the mama with the millions of gold earrings; take your sniggering, giggling little daughter and go home — that is the most inappropriate display of etiquette I've seen today."

Suddenly, the crowd turned deathly silent.

I bit my lip to hold back a smile, ducking my head down to the floor.

I think I like that new delegate.

But not only were the new delegates very impatient, but it seemed they were also very quick, as well, because in a matter of minutes, the queue had already begun to shrunk.

But how'd they go through so many women in such a short time?

"Ma, they didn't even look at me." I heard someone whine and, as I turned, I caught sight of a girl furiously rubbing at her eyes. "They rejected me and they didn't even look at me."

"Please, Yasmin, don't cry — we're in public. You still have better chances next year; it's not your fault the three of them didn't pick you. They're barely looking at any as it is!"

So that's why the queue is moving so quick; they're haven't been giving anyone chances.

But why?

A little bit of hope bloomed in my chest.

Maybe they've already found someone else? Maybe them coming to Babylon now is just to save face?

I didn't try to conceal my smile anymore.

By the time I'd gotten to the front of the line, the sky had turned dark, wispy little clouds moving back and forth.

"Next! You, girl with the cheek mole, come forward."

I swallowed, taking a step to the front.

No matter how many times you do this, the fear never quite goes away.

"You don't think she's too short?" the green-robed man whispered.

"No, Prince Raza likes small women. Besides, look at her hair; look how dark it is. He'd like it, I'm sure."

"That's true, but look at her nose. It's too big; it doesn't look like a regal nose."

"Yes, but it's much better than the other ones we've seen..."

Better? Much better?

My heartbeat quickened.

This is not going the way I wanted it to.

I'd been to the choosing times in the past. Each and every one of those times, they'd look at me and dismiss me, all in a matter of three seconds.

But these three were putting in actual effort which would be quite nice, if the person they were trying to pick was not me.

Because I don't want to be picked. I can't be picked.

Taking a breath, I pulled down the side of my scarf, willing the delegates to look at a face that was no longer half obscured by a shawl.

I've always partially covered my face in Choosings. It almost felt wrong now, to be so open, but I had no choice.

Still, my nails dug in so deep in my hand, they felt like they were going to bleed.

The blue-clothed man made direct eye contact with me first, and blinmed. "Abdul, her eyes."

"I can see her eyes, Ismal," the red one hissed back, his eyes burning holes into the side of my face. "Girl, why are your eyes blue? Where are you from?"

"Babylon," I said. "But my maman is Arabic."

"Mixed?"

"Yes."

"So, she's not pure," the green man murmured, leaning back in his chair.

"And we can't have an impure heir," Abdul murmured. "Darij, what do you think?"

"I mean, she's good looking, but her eyes give her away. The people would riot with an Arabic son, even if he's not King, and—"

"No, I say we keep her," Ismal said, and as I turned to meet his eyes, I felt my shoulders shrink.

He looks excited.

I can't have him looking excited.

"My maman was pure Arabic," I said.

"Did you hear that? Her mother is pure Arabic; not a drop of Persian in her. You must be reasonable, Ismal. Would Prince Cairo want an Arabic concubine? She's not Persian, even if she was born in Babylon, and we cannot have a non-Persian prince on the throne line."

Inwardly, I let out a cheer.

"Well, yes, but Prince Cairo has been bored lately. None of the girls we've brought in have interested him so far, and this time, he's specifically told me to find someone different. She is quite beautiful, no? I think he'll be pleased."

"Prince Raza and Prince Finn will not be happy," Darij hissed.

"She's not for them. My prince is my, and, knowing him, should be your utmost concern as well."

Should be...?

"Isma—"

Abdul raised his hand, hushing the other man's protests. "Ismal, are you sure Prince Cairo would want this?"

"Yes."

"And if you misheard? If you thought wrong? It's disrespectful to send him an ugly product."

"The Prince is merciful; if he doesn't like her, then we send her back. Or they kill her, if he's that unsatisfied."

Or they kill her.

How easy they say it, as if my life meant nothing at all. But to three noble men, I suppose a poor Babylon woman held less weight than the gold ornament on their heads.

Still, I felt the fear burn across my neck.

Abdul leaned across the table, his lips pressed together in a firm line. Beside him, the blue robed man clenched his fists, so tight that even from here, four feet away, I could see them turning white.

"Abdul, you can't seriously think—"

"Do whatever you please, Ismal. But it's your head, not ours."

"Abdul!"

"It's fine, Darij," he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "We have a couple more girls to go, and we won't ever finish through if we don't let him do what he likes. He won't budge. You, girl, what's your name?"

Khuda, Khuda, Khuda bless me, help me, or better yet, how about you just kill me now?

Khale A'isha had always told me to show my emotions more, that it was endearing for women to cry. I prided myself in the fact that, no matter how many times she'd said that, I'd never cried in front of her.

Shame filled my throat when I felt my breaths go shallow in front of three complete strangers.

"Well? What's your name?"

"Aliya," I said. My voice sounded annoying, oddly high and raspy and pitchy, even to my ears, but Abdul took no notice.

"Move to the left, to the end of the line," he said, gesturing to a group of women crowded behind him.

My legs felt both numb and painful, but with the ringing in my ears and the weight of three expectant, heavy gazes on my face, I forced them to move past a tall, sleek-haired brunette, a petite fifteen year old with amber eyes, and at least six other women I couldn't bring myself to look at.

I felt like I was about to throw up.

"Congratulations," the girl at the end of the line whispered, her lips painted red and stretched wide to accommodate her smile. "You're one of the lucky ones."

But I didn't feel lucky at all.

As I took my place in the line, I kept my eyes down.

Unexpectedly, the exposed seams of my shoes now seemed so blurry.

But don't you want to become concubine, Aliya?

Don't you want to become concubine?

Concubine, Aliya?

Don't you want to become concubine?

Khale's voice had always been loud, but now, I could hardly hear anything except for the heavy timbre of her voice asking over and over again,

"Don't you want to become concubine? It's what your mother would have wanted for you, Aliya."

But I don't want this.

In Persia, women were allowed to stay in school until the age of twelve. But, unlike the men, we were only taught Farsi, the ways of a good Persian housewife, and the will and preaches of Khuda — of how he'd gone down to earth to show us how mighty he was, of how benevolent and kind, of his everlasting protection of us.

But they were wrong.

He had seen the Earth and did not like it. He'd gone back to the heavens and right now—

He is not kind.

Khuda, I wonder if the day I die will be soon.

KAY © 2019.

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