Belin’s eyes were wet with tears, and his whole face was red and angry. Ifra had never seen a master so angry. But he had also never seen a master in pain like this, and that surprised him.
“Master, please-”
“You think I killed him too!” Belin took the half-carved bear and threw it on the ground. He swept his hands across the table, scattering knives and sharp tools, forcing Ifra to fly from the chair to get out of the way. “It doesn’t matter what I do, I’m always a failure.”
“Belin. Please.” Ifra held out his hands and kept his voice mild, trying to soothe Belin like he would a troubled animal back on the farm.
“Shut up!” Belin shouted, voice raw. “I don’t trust you either. I’ve never trusted you. Shut up and don’t speak again until I tell you to. And don’t write, either. I don’t want you talking to anyone. I don’t even want to see your face. I just want you to protect me from harm but never, ever talk to me.”
Maybe it was all in his head, but Ifra imagined he felt his vocal cords tighten. He shivered.
“Get out of my sight!”
Ifra left the room. He stood in the hall, cold sweat breaking out in patches. What if Belin was losing his mind? Ifra had never imagined that Belin would forbid him from speaking.
He heard Belin stomping around the room, and then he heard a door shut as Belin ventured deeper into his quarters. Ifra took a few calming breaths. It could be worse. At least he didn’t have to leave Violet alone or kill anyone. For now. If Belin asked something worse of him tomorrow, he couldn’t even beg or plead.
Some time passed. Belin still hadn’t come out. Ifra couldn’t stand in the hall forever. He didn’t have to be within sight of Belin to protect him.
But he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even ask the servants where Violet had gone, and when he found Violet, he couldn’t tell her anything. If he thought about it too long, his panic started mounting again. Just as a master had never shouted at him before, of course they had never wished for Ifra to be punished himself. The power to speak was one of the freedoms even the lowliest slave enjoyed. Maybe it would only be a day, but what if weeks or months or years went by?
He went downstairs. A servant girl was dusting the carvings. She looked sad, the kind of sad he never saw on fairies outside of Telmirra.
“How is Master Belin?” she asked.
He shook his head, and quickly went out the door, feeling rude. He’d been raised never to leave a woman’s presence without a proper leave-taking, but he didn’t want to go around miming explanations to everyone he passed.
He walked around the side of the palace, nodding when people greeted him, and entered through the courtyard garden, which was now blanketed with snow. Still, fairies would not be kept indoors. A couple lingered under a bower, and children ran about playing a game. Ifra had just reached the palace door when he realized he couldn’t look for Violet. If Belin learned that he cared for her, things would get even worse.
Maybe he could look for Erris. He felt his spirit, teasing at the edges of his sense, and yet-what direction? He couldn’t tell. Were fairies buried? Did the Tanharrows have a grand tomb where they might have hidden his body? He wandered down paths, through courtyards, past buildings and groves, but he saw no statues or engraved tablets.
How little he still knew of this place, and these people, and yet it was likely he would be here forever, would never see Arkat and Hami again. Even if he was permitted to write his mother letters, Arkat and Hami couldn’t read or write.
His thoughts circled back to Belin’s outburst. He had told Violet that Belin was cruel, and as Belin threw things, he thought him mad. But now that he was off by himself, he started to think that Belin seemed more hurt than hateful.
Was he being naive again? His tutor had told him not to trust anyone, that everyone everywhere was selfish and merely wanted to enslave others and reach for superficial things, and yet he had encountered kindness everywhere-with Arkat and Hami, with the family who insisted on feeding him and Violet the last of their blueberries, with Keyelle and Etana… And who was he to Nimira and Celestina? A villain. Maybe it was only a matter of perspective.
He was circling back to the palace again when a woman called, “Pardon me! Ifra? Are you the jinn Ifra?”
“Yes,” he tried to say, forgetting Belin’s command. All that came out was a strangled sound, like trying to cry out in a dream. The fear and anger he associated with Belin returned in a hot rush as he put his hand to his throat.
“Are you all right?” The woman spoke as if she didn’t have time for anyone who wasn’t all right, wiping her hands briskly on her apron.
He nodded, then touched his lips and shook his head.
“You are mute?”
Ifra had no idea how to convey that Belin had forbidden him from speaking. He looked apologetic, but his cheeks were hot.
“Well, we’ve been trying to dress Violet for the king, and she’s locked herself in the privy and won’t come out. She’s calling for you, and I’d rather have her coaxed out of her own free will than find someone with the keys and pry her out.”
Violet, calling for him? She was going to jeopardize their plans and he wouldn’t be able to say a word! Maybe he could calm her down quickly and no one would think much of it. He started to follow the woman, as she muttered, “It’s no way for a queen to behave.”
He followed her to a hall with a gaggle of pretty fairy women-some tall and lean, others with an ample, fertile look-clustered around a door. Ilsin’s wife was there, and she gave him a familiar smile as if they actually knew each other, brushing her dark curls away from her neck. The women all turned to stare at Ifra, quite a few of them flashing winning smiles, one hand actually darting out to touch the gold cuff at his wrist.
“I’ve found the jinn, Lady Violet. Please come out at once,” said the woman.
“Ifra?” Violet called warily.
Ifra looked around helplessly.
“Ifra?” Violet shouted. “Where is he?”
“He’s here. He seems to be mute.”
“What? Ifra isn’t mute!”
Ifra scratched the door, making a plaintive sound he hoped she understood.
She opened the door a crack, revealing a cross face with eyes and cheeks all shining from crying, and when she saw him, she grabbed his arm and tried to pull him in with her, but he wasn’t about to listen to her rant and cry in a privy. He switched his grip to the upper hand and managed to pull her out, past the staring women and into the nearest room, which seemed to be the original site of her tantrum-clothes, shoes, and fabric samples were strewn across couch and rug.
He shut the door behind them and shook her arm, looking at her fiercely. She twisted from his grasp.
“Ifra, why aren’t you talking?”
After a few moments of confused pantomime, she understood. “Belin forbade you from speaking?”
He nodded.
“Forever?”
He shook his head, then shrugged, but trying to explain was already getting exhausting. That creeping feeling of violation, which any seasoned jinn should have been able to suppress, seemed to well up in full force. He wanted to talk to Violet, console her and yell at her all at once, and instead he could only stare and gesture. For a moment, he felt like he might cry himself, but instead he shoved aside the dresses on the couch and sat down hard.
“Ifra? Don’t cry. Don’t cry.” Violet put her small, cool hands on his, drew them away from his face, and pulled them against her heart. “Ifra? Is there anything I can do?”
Someone knocked on the door.
“Go away!” Violet screamed.
“We need to dress you for the king.” It was the impatient woman again.
Ifra gestured to the door.
“They’re cruel to me,” Violet said. “They said I-I was homely. They asked me why I was so skinny and small.”
