The Moth & the Flame Page 2

  She stopped as though she’d said too much.

  It did not matter. The young queen need say no more.

  A curl of sympathy rose in Despina’s throat. “A king’s queen should never be a pressing weight,” she said in a gentle voice. “And—just as I am one who does not ask before taking action—you appear to be anything but a source of worry, my lady.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so. Though I am not of the same mind.”

  Another moment passed between them in thoughtful silence. “Tell him you are preparing a gift for him, my lady. That you’d like to share it sometime soon.”

  “Is it truly that simple?” Dubiousness creased the whole of the calipha’s brow.

  “It is a beginning.” Despina’s voice was bright. “And sharing such a beautiful gift with one you love is not a cause for concern, my lady. But rather a cause for celebration.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Emboldened, the young queen stood straight and met Despina’s gaze. “Perhaps I shall tell him about it.”

  Despina placed the perfume on the low table along the far wall, then bowed to take her leave, a triumphant smile touching her lips.

  Perhaps the young queen would ask her name tomorrow. Then perhaps she’d ask Despina’s advice on which color suited her complexion best. Which scent would entice the caliph’s notice.

  The day following that?

  The possibilities were endless.

  • • •

  Jalal al-Khoury was bored.

  Such boredom did not behoove the beautiful day before him. Did not pay homage to its clear blue sky and the citrus-scented breeze weaving through the open screens of the palace.

  He supposed he could seek out Sahar. Or perhaps Nasreen. Both girls were just the kind to take advantage of such a lovely day. Just the kind to put aside their work and get lost in the many shaded corners of the gardens beyond.

  The kind to engage in Jalal’s favorite pastime.

  Women had always been a weakness for him, much to his father’s chagrin. Aref al-Khoury—the Shahrban of Rey—had been faithful to one woman all his life. Sought comfort in the arms of one woman, and one woman alone. Whereas his son sought comfort in the arms of many women. Women of all sorts. Short, thin, tall, plump—it mattered not to Jalal.

  For Jalal al-Khoury loved women and never sought to hide the fact. He’d been called many things as a result. Scoundrel. Rake. Profligate. But he’d never been called boring. And Jalal refused to let such a travesty occur on such a lovely day.

  After all, there were far too many fetching young women at the palace.

  So Jalal walked through its warren of marbled corridors, on the search for any girl with a smiling face and a moment to flirt.

  But—when he turned the corner across from the queen’s chambers—Jalal did not come across a girl with a smiling face.

  Instead he came across a girl with a decidedly pensive gaze. A girl with an empty silver tray dangling from one hand. When a ray of afternoon sun struck its surface, the flash of light drew him toward her, like a moth to a flame.

  Jalal recognized her in an instant.

  It was the same girl from three weeks past. The one with the sharp tongue and the sly expression. An expression rich with emotion. Rich with intelligence.

  Rich with secrets.

  As with the first time, Jalal was struck by her bearing. It was not the bearing of a servant. No. There was nothing meek or solicitous about her manner. The girl carried herself with calm pomposity. It reminded him greatly of himself.

  He slowed his gait to a leisurely stroll and let his eyes run the length of her. Skin the color of cool sand. Eyes the blue of the Aegean. Long, rich curls of light walnut hair wrapped in intricate coils.

  Just as lovely as Jalal remembered.

  As he drew near, the girl was taken from her reverie.

  Just as before, she did not fluster at his arrival. No sign of recognition rippled across her face. Not a trace of becoming blush rose in her cheeks. She did not avert her gaze or bite her lip.

  She merely returned his stare. With such steadiness that Jalal instead grew flustered, one hand seeking purchase on the hilt of his scimitar.

  “Are you lost, Captain al-Khoury?” the girl asked without pause.

  Ordinarily such a question would be nothing short of an overture for Jalal. An overture demanding a flowery response. Or at the very least, a honeyed quip. Something about her eyes—which truly were striking—or perhaps about the shining crown of curls about her head.

  Something suggestive.

  Something about how he’d like to unravel those curls and watch them fall apart in his fingers.

  But his memory recalled more than her striking beauty. It also recalled a biting wit. One that lanced old wounds as it made new ones. Any felicitous overtures on his part would be lost on this girl. She would likely mock him for his efforts.

  So instead Jalal cleared his throat and leaned back on his heels.

  “Why do you suppose I’m lost?” he began in an airy tone.

  “You’re no longer walking with purpose.”

  Jalal lifted his shoulders, glib to a fault. “Sometimes it’s rather nice to take a stroll without a destination in mind. Have you never thought of such a thing? Getting lost for a moment and seeing where the day takes you?”

  “I can’t say. I’ve never been afforded such a luxury,” she bit out drily, though a trace of humor lit her gaze. “Besides, are you certain it isn’t too early for such pithy ruminations?”

  He almost laughed at her boldness. “Is it ever too early for reflection?”

  “I don’t know. Is it too early for wine?”

  “The sun has not yet begun its descent.” Jalal glanced through the open window nearby. “Propriety would say it is.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If it’s too early for wine, then it’s too early for reflection.”

  Jalal laughed loudly. Unthinkingly.

  It had been a long time since he’d laughed with true abandon. Laughed without a soul to impress or inspire.

  “It wasn’t that funny, Captain al-Khoury,” the girl chided.

  The laughter lingered in his response. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” She inclined her body toward his, the silver tray in her left hand twinkling with merriment.

  “Seek compliments.”

  For the first time, he saw a hint of annoyance in her features—the slightest dip of her lips. “I’m doing nothing of the sort.”

  “Oh?” He drew closer. “Are you not expecting me to tell you it was indeed that funny, and that you might be the most amusing young woman I’ve ever met?”

  She cast him an arched glance. “In fact I am not waiting for you to say such a thing. Though I am the most amusing young woman you will ever meet.”

  Another hearty round of laughter.

  “As you can see, I have no need to seek compliments.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Jalal replied. “All women seek compliments.”

  “And all men think they know everything.”

  “I never laid claim to such a belief,” Jalal said, his feet taking him one step closer. Still the moth to the flame. “But I do happen to know everything about women . . . what they like, what they dislike”—he moved his hand through the air in an endless circle—“what they mean to say though they refuse to say it.”

  The girl snorted with derision. “Further idiocy. With the snap of my fingers, I could ask you a question about women to which you do not know the answer.”

  “Are you making a wager with me?” As Jalal bent toward her, a distinctly floral fragrance caught his attention. It hovered about the girl, its scent soothingly sweet, saturating the air in alluring waves.

  “Perhaps.” She quirked her chin in teasing fashion.

  “And the terms?” />
  The girl brought the empty tray between them, as though it were a shield. “If I win, you must give me any flower of my choosing.”

  “And if I win?” Jalal dropped his voice with deliberate suggestion. “Will you give me whatever I wish?”

  “Oh, don’t be an ass.” Her laugh was meant to sound caustic, but Jalal sensed a hint of disquiet behind it. “I’m not foolish enough to make such a reckless promise with a notorious rake.”

  He stood toe to toe with her. “But you could be a fool,” he murmured. “Just this once.”

  Her breath caught, her eyes glittering like a sea after a storm. “Only in the wildest of your dreams would that ever happen.” The tray lifted higher, pressing the silver against the swell of her chest. “If you win, I will tell you one thing you wish to know about me.”

  The decadent sight of the girl before Jalal distracted him. Took him off guard. Rendered him incompetent. “Ask away, my lovely tormenter. Ask and be proven wrong.”

  “You claim to know everything about women,” she began. “But tell me, Captain al-Khoury, do you know my name?”

  Jalal was at a loss. Her perfume had cloaked his senses. Clouded his judgment.

  He hadn’t been expecting such a question.

  An easy one. A silly one.

  One Jalal could not romance his way through.

  Such an occasion happened but once in the lifetime of a profligate such as he. It took every ounce of his self-control not to frown or grumble or kick at nothing, like a bested schoolboy. Infuriated by how easily he’d fallen prey to this cheeky handmaiden’s wit, Jalal took a step back.

  He racked his mind for an answer. Any answer that would color him less the fool.

  It took him far longer than he wished. But soon Jalal managed to contrive a way to remedy this situation. In his favor. He smiled.

  “Meet me to collect your winnings in the first tier of the royal gardens at sunset.”

  With that, Jalal spun on a heel and walked away.

  A SUNSET STROLL

  THIS WOULD NOT END WELL.

  Of that, Despina was certain.

  But her current reservations were of little consequence. She would not show the young captain of the guard the effect he’d had on her. The effect he was sure to have on her. So instead Despina stood at the edge of the first tier in the royal gardens, her head high as she watched the sun descend along the horizon. The sky above was tinted in hues of pink and orange. Hues of fire and light and celebration.

  What kind of celebration, Despina wouldn’t pretend to know.

  Below her, the tiers of the royal gardens blossomed with color and life, their terraces stacked like large stones in a descending staircase. Each tier brought with it a new experience. The first tier—the one in which she waited—included an aviary, filled with songbirds of every sort. The tiny creatures flitted about behind her, trilling their mockery to riotous discord. The lark in particular appeared to have much to say regarding her current circumstance.

  Much to lecture.

  Indeed. Despina never should have made a wager with a rake. A rake who may not even honor their arrangement today.

  But in that single, memorable moment earlier, Despina had thought she’d won the day. The moment when the captain of the Royal Guard’s face had dropped, she was certain he would declare himself bested.

  Bested by a handmaiden. Then he would walk away and leave her be. Leave the sudden tumult in her heart to settle.

  Leave her to reflect on the lessons of her mother from long ago.

  Alas, Despina had been dismayed to discover the captain’s reputation not the least bit ill founded. He’d caught her unawares with his charm. Unawares and almost enamored.

  But Jalal al-Khoury would not take the better of her. She would triumph over him.

  For that precious moment, Despina had thought she had.

  Then the captain of the guard’s features had smoothed. All too knowingly.

  And Despina had known she’d lost.

  Anything that made a rake of his reputation appear that self-assured was not something to dismiss so readily. Now it fell upon her to find a way to remove that knowing smirk from his face. To remove it or rearrange it . . .

  To one of chastened humility.

  “You’re here.” He spoke behind her, amusement leavening his tones.

  Despina glanced over a shoulder, affecting a look of disdain to mask her surprise at his arrival. “You’re late.”

  “I had a devil of a time escaping the caliph.” The captain of the guard groaned as he sauntered to her side, leaning back against the marble balustrade at the terrace’s edge. “He’s spending an obsessive amount of time with the royal engineers, intent on re-creating a system of heated baths he saw when he last traveled to Damascus.”

  “And he wished you to be present for this discussion?” Despina felt her body ease closer to his and caught herself with a firm grip along the rail.

  “He wishes for me to care about things of this sort.”

  “And what sort would that be?”

  When he turned his head to look at her, the sunlight warmed one side of his chiseled face, gilding it bronze. “Things of the boring, intellectual sort.” He winked.

  Despina fought the urge to avert her gaze. “I suppose that would be too much to ask for.”

  “No. I wish for him to care, too. Just not about the same things.”

  “Oh? What sort of things matter to you, Captain al-Khoury?”

  A sobering pause filled the space between them. “The caliph and I are very different.” With his right hand, he indicated her to proceed through the gardens. Despina did not miss that—with the same gesture—he also made it clear he no longer wished to follow this line of discussion.

  They walked toward the staircase, falling in step with each other, their motions graceful and unimpeded. Natural.

  The light on the horizon continued to deepen while the inky black of night reached from behind their shoulders. They made their way down the gritty granite pavestones. “When you first arrived, you were surprised to find me here?” Despina asked conversationally.

  “Of course. I half expected you to disappear.” The edge of his white cloak swayed in time with his steps, the royal seal at his shoulder gleaming bright.

  “I’ll admit I considered it. But I, too, refuse to run from challenges.” Despina repeated his words from their first encounter, a playful gleam entering her gaze.

  He looked at her, smiling all the while. “How do you see this as a challenge? You bested me.”

  “Despite all evidence to the contrary.”

  “How do you suppose—”

  “If I had truly won, I would be the one telling you when and where I’d like to claim my prize.”

  The captain of the guard laughed softly. Conciliatorily. “I am curious, though—which flower would you like to claim for your own?”

  It was the way in which he worded it. The subtle challenge behind the question.

  What kind of girl are you?

  Most girls would ask for a rose. Or perhaps another flower with the same kind of bright, arresting color. A color to match an intoxicating fragrance. Or perhaps they would ask for a spray of citrus blossoms. They’d perfume a room for days, long after their petals had wilted to the floor.

  Yes, most girls would ask for flowers such as these.

  Despina was not most girls.

  Immediately she knew what to do.

  With purpose, Despina quickened her pace. The scent of citrus blossoms flew past her as she wove her way through the second tier, progressing down to the third. The captain of the guard paused by a maze of rosebushes, his intention clear—but Despina moved past them without a second glance.

  It was late spring. The perfect time. The flower she wanted would just be blooming, its scent rich and he
ady.

  Sure enough—in the very center of the third tier—Despina spotted the grove of trees in question. She found the tallest one. It stood more than twice the height of a man.

  She studied its topmost branches through squinted eyes.

  Then she turned toward the captain of the Royal Guard.

  “Do you see that branch of jessamine at the top?” she said. “The one bending toward the light, with the flowering buds?”

  He stepped alongside her, lifting his gaze to the tree. “The purple one?”

  “Yes.”

  A frown marred his expression. “Why not one of the lower branches that have already produced blossoms?”

  “The buds of the jessamine are far more fragrant than the blossoms.”

  “I prefer the white flowers to the purple buds.” He assumed a stubborn stance, his feet shoulder length apart and his arms crossed tight. “Besides, there are many buds available within arm’s reach.”

  “The buds with the most exposure to the sun are the best,” Despina insisted. She turned to look him in the eye. “Are you honestly balking, Captain al-Khoury?”

  He shook his head, lines of consternation forming at the bridge of his nose. “Not balking. Merely strategizing.”

  “More like delaying the inevitable. Collect my winnings, if you please.” She spoke as though she were the one in a position of power, and he the servant.

  The captain of the Royal Guard seemed to appreciate it. “Cheeky wench.” He grinned, though the furrow between his eyes remained intact.

  He withdrew his scimitar and removed his cloak. Despina watched, her smile spreading with uncontrolled glee. She thought she heard him mutter choice epithets to himself.

  He planted his hands on his hips and studied his leafy adversary. “If I had a bow and arrow, this task would be far easier.”

  “Even you cannot be such a skilled archer.” Despina snorted.

  The captain of the guard glanced her way. “You’ve heard I’m a skilled archer?”

  “No doubt from your own tongue.”

  He laughed, then heaved his way onto the lowest limb. He swung with grace from branch to branch, his feet and hands moving in perfect tandem.