He snatches the scroll back. “I was just—”
“Looking for information on me. Or my kind, anyway.” I frown and fold my arms. “You can read? A boy from the slums?”
“Don’t look so surprised. My mother was a scribe once, and she taught me letters. And anyway, we weren’tthatbad off, not at first.” His eyes turn distant. “My father had a good business, tailoring, and my mother penned letters and ledgers for people. We did all right, until...” He shakes his head and furls the scroll. “What did Caspida want?”
“To talk about elephants and dead queens.”
“What? Really?”
“Oh, stop frowning. She asked about you too—what you’re like, what kind of person you are. Don’t worry.” I pat his hand conspiratorially and smile. “I lied.”
“Well?” Aladdin waves the scroll impatiently. “Did she seem, I don’t know, interested?”
“Interested? She’s barely spoken a dozen words to you. Give it time.”
He nods distractedly and scratches his ear; his earring still hangs there, a simple gold ring. I’d wanted him to take it off on the ship—any part of his old life would make it easier for someone to see through his glamoured appearance—but he’d insisted on keeping it.
“We’ve been here more than two weeks,” he says. “And I only see her at dinners, and we can’t talk there. How am I supposed to win her over if I can’t even talk to her?”
On a table nearby, someone has left out a map of the world, its corners held down by stone gryphons. I run a hand across the parchment, tracing the coastlines. Around the edge of the map, the dates of the year have been inked in tiny letters. I eye them thoughtfully, then tap one of the numbers.
“Fahradan.”
“What?” Aladdin comes to stand behind me, looking over my shoulder.
“In two weeks, the Amulens will celebrate the feast of Fahradan, in honor of the god Hamor.” The god of lovers and fools—how appropriate. “Unless the traditions have changed drastically since I last celebrated, it’s the perfect time to get Caspida’s attention.”
“Why?”
I turn and frown at him. “Haven’t you ever celebrated Fahradan?”
“If bycelebrateyou mean pick people’s pockets while they’re dancing...”
I roll my eyes. “I should have guessed. Look, during the night of Fahradan, anyone can ask anyone to dance, and nobody’s allowed to refuse.”
A slow grin dawns on his face. “I see. But... two weeks? That’s an eternity!”
It’s also one night before the moon dies and my time runs out.
“Trust me,” I say dryly, “it’s hardly that. Did you think you’d walk into the palace, ask for her hand, and marry her within the week?”
“I don’t know.” He picks up one of the stone gryphons and tosses it from hand to hand. “I didn’t really think at all, I guess. And don’t forget, this was allyouridea.” He looks down at me, his eyes troubled. “It’s killing me, Zahra. Seeing the vizier every day, passing him in the hall, pretending to bow and grovel. I hate it.”
I glance over at Jalil, who is lost in his work, then back at Aladdin. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Let’s get out of here. There’s too much dust. Too much... history.” I take the scroll of jinn lore from his hand and set it on a shelf. “I want to sit in the sun and feel the sea breeze on my face.”
“All right,” he says, a bit amused. “And you can tell me more about the jinn.”
•••
We climb the tallest tower in the palace and find ourselves at last standing upon the rooftop, beneath a striped canvas awning, looking down on the city. From this height, it looks flawless, like a city in a story, stained with the golden light of midmorning. White rooftops bake in the sun, colorful awnings stretching between them, the crowns of the palms and other trees casting spiky patches of shade on the streets. And beyond the south wall, the cliffs overlook the turquoise sea. Not a cloud is to be seen, and the sun blazes like the eye of a beneficent god. Seabirds ride the warm air, drifting in the sky and turning lazy circles around the glittering minarets of the palace.
“Look at it,” breathes Aladdin, leaning over the parapet. His elbows brush the leaves of a potted lemon tree, its branches budding with tiny fruits. “Not a bad view. I could get used to this.”
“So. Becoming a prince isn’tentirelyabout revenge, is it?”
