Dead Girls Tell No Tales

s i x

BEASTLY SEEMS TO BE A FITTING WORD for Shahryar, she thinks as she lies in the bathtub. Her hair falls in waves on the ceramic rim, freshly washed in cleansing shampoos. Behind her, Laleh rubs sandalwood paste on her arms, prepping her for another day. Or night.

"The entire palace is talking about you," she says, patting the damp curls dry. "It's literally so irritating for me to answer them."

Shahrazad sighs in content, sinking into the bath. "You sure seem annoyed. I don't see why they're gossiping though."

"Sometimes I don't understand whether you're too modest or too oblivious."

She drapes a towel of feathers on her shoulders, leading her towards the bed where her black shamla lies. It's simple, yet elegant, with delicate golden thread embroidery on the fabric. When Shahrazad clothes herself, she's slightly detached, more than usual. "I think he knows that I'm upto something."

Pausing from her chores, Laleh quips a slender brow. "What makes you say that?"

"Shahryar asked me why I was at the stables," she says, recalling his steely touch. "He said that he'll kill me if he finds out that I'm plotting behind his back."

"Honestly, he'll kill you either way."

"That's helpful," she remarks dryly. The palace is eerily quiet today. Usually, she can hear the clamour of armour from her chambers, the soft laughter of maidens echoing during their chores. This hour is silent, though. "Did Anwar come back?"

Laleh slips bangles onto her wrists. "Not yet. It's kind of surprising really, since he's the second best rider in the kingdom."

She leans against the windows, feeling the desert sun scorch her tightly shut eyes. When they burn, she stares into the distance, searching for the imprints of a messenger. But then, like everything else, the sands always wash the past away. "Who's the best?"

"You don't want to know."

Shahrazad sighs. It's natural, of course, he's the king. She imagines him sitting on his blood stained throne, eyes cruel, heart hollow, crown weaved into his dark shock of hair. "The first day, you told me that the West Wing is forbidden. Why?"

The handmaiden stitches her lips together. She's not one for patience. "It just is."

"Reason, Laleh," she repeats, "I don't understand why nobody here ever answers questions directly."

"Well, I don't know, malika, it's the King's orders. Ask him if you're so intrigued."

Shahrazad prefers her head on her shoulders, so she falls silent. She would rather choke on shards of glass than ask him about the shut doors and restricted halls. She's certain that behind the doors, there are mangled bodies and corpses that met his blade. Sure of it.