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Later, Zafira collected her newly fashioned arrows and slipped them into her sling with soft thuds that mimicked her heartbeat. Lana twirled a white feather between her fingers before gathering the trimmed remnants.
“I’m going to take a wash and meet Simah,” she said with a yawn.
“Oh?”
“Lunch,” Lana hedged, and when Zafira narrowed her eyes, she said, “Her umm is sick.”
“You don’t have to run and play doctor every time someone asks. You don’t owe—”
“Neither do you,” Lana cut her off. Seeing the surprise on Zafira’s face, she scrambled closer and took her hand. “I’m sorry, Okht, but it’s true, isn’t it? I—I’ll be back later.”
Zafira pulled Lana in for a hug before she could escape, wrapping her arms around her sister and holding her close. She took every word she wanted to whisper and said, “I’m sorry.”
Lana pulled back to look at her and pressed a kiss to Zafira’s cheek.
“I know,” she whispered, and Zafira heard everything in between those letters.
After Lana disappeared down the hall, Zafira sank back into the cushions with a sigh. She picked up Baba’s jambiya, weighing it and its straight-bladed cousin, the dagger, in her palms to decide which would be better suited against an enemy.
An enemy. She wouldn’t be hunting deer and rabbit anymore. She would be hunting monsters, if the stories about Sharr were to be believed. She would be fighting for her own life.
She jumped at a rap on the door. Skies, Zafira. Her pulse quickened as she thought of the Silver Witch, but logic told her the witch would more likely materialize in front of her than knock. Some logic that was.
Zafira pulled open the door.
Deen stood at the threshold, curls dusted in snow. She braced herself for words about how she shouldn’t go. Why she should stay.
But instead, he said, “You haven’t happened to see the Hunter, have you?”
She smiled, and his eyes sparkled at her relief.
“Last I heard, he was taking the day off,” she said.
Deen stepped inside and looked from the strewn feather barbs to the pristine white fletchings of her arrows. He rubbed his hands before the fire and canted his head. “This isn’t called ‘taking the day off.’ Come with me.”
She only stared.
“It’s been forever since you’ve stepped out as Zafira.”
She tossed the trimmings in the bin. “But then everyone will know how beautiful I am.”
His smile was soft. “As they should.”
Her skin buzzed, thinking of last night atop the roof, the cold at her neck. Their faces breaths apart. The curve of his lips and the moon running her fingers through his curls. “Where will we go?”
“Hmm, let’s see. Maybe Bakdash?” he asked, his tone making it clear he had thought this through.
Zafira pressed her lips into a line and glowered.
He laughed. “I know you hate everything to do with it, but—”
“I hate the theory of it,” she groused. “The idea of flocking to buy iced cream while carping about how cold the caliphate is.”
“You, Zafira, have a very odd way of thinking.” Deen picked up her wool shawl and gave it to her. “Bakdash is ours. It’s one of the few things that makes Demenhur special. People used to flock here from all across Arawiya for a taste. Give it a try, hmm?” His voice softened. “Who knows when you’ll have another chance.”
His words struck her. This would be her last day in Demenhur for quite some time. Possibly forever.
A voice nagged at her, telling her this journey to Sharr was a lie of an errand that could only bring pain. But she had seen that look on the Silver Witch’s features. Zafira knew what it was like to crave redemption, to blame oneself for a moment’s weakness.
