Ali did indeed find himself fighting panic. “What are you two talking about?”
His sister’s eyes twinkled. “How many times you’ve kissed Nahri.”
Ali was suddenly glad he’d given up his fire magic, because otherwise he would have combusted into embarrassed flames.
“I … that’s not—” he stammered. “I mean, it was a very emotional night.”
Zaynab and Muntadhir burst into laughter.
“Once,” Muntadhir agreed, laughing so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye. “I owe you a dirham.”
“You bet on whether or not I kissed your wife?” Ali was aghast. “What is wrong with the two of you?” When his brother and sister only cackled harder, he drew up. “I hate you. I hate you both.”
Zaynab laid her head on his shoulder. “You love us.”
Ali had to force a disgruntled sound. Because he did love them. And though they were mocking him and planning separate futures, he suddenly felt a spark of pure hope here in the quiet of the forest with his brother and sister, sitting between the river and the city—his river and his city—the worlds and people he would bring together. Ali had more work on his plate than ever before: a new government to establish and a ruined economy to fix. Alliances to knit back together and new family secrets to confide to his dearest of partners. A mother expecting a very long letter and a father to finally say funeral prayers for.
But right now, he simply sat, enjoying the sun on his face, the lake-fresh air, and the company of his family. “Alhamdulillah,” he murmured. God be praised.
Muntadhir glanced up idly from where he was twisting a blade of grass. “What’s that for?”
“Nothing. Everything.” Ali smiled. “I am just so very grateful.”
48
NAHRI
It took surprisingly little time to pack up the life she’d made at the palace.
Of the dozens of silk gowns and gold-embroidered chadors, Nahri took few. They were lovely, but she’d have little need for fine dresses and fancy clothes on the new path she’d set for herself. When it came to her jewelry, though, she took everything she could fit in a trunk. Nahri would never shed her memories of poverty, and while she was happy to contribute some of her belongings to the fund being established to rebuild Daevabad, she wasn’t going to leave herself penniless, especially when her hospital had its own needs.
She picked through her books more carefully, fearing she’d have little free time to read for the foreseeable future. Medical texts got pulled out and packed away in a special trunk. Then Nahri straightened up, glancing around the room.
A row of small objects on the window ledge caught her eye: the little gifts the old Egyptian cook had given her with her meals. Nahri retrieved one, a small reed boat, and brushed away the dust with her thumb. She wondered if the old man had survived the attack on the palace. Maybe after she was finished packing, she’d go down to the kitchens and find out.
I should try and reach out to the other Egyptian shafit here. Now that Nahri was free to embrace her roots, it might be nice to spend some time with the rest of her exiled countryfolk. Maybe someone would be interested in returning to Cairo and bringing a very long letter to a very confused apothecarist.
Maybe someone knew of a young woman from their community who’d once caught the eye of a Baga Nahid.
But before Nahri left to go anywhere, there was one more thing she needed to retrieve. She returned to her bed and knelt on the floor.
She hesitated. She knew there was a good chance it wasn’t here anymore. Though her room at the palace looked dusty and untouched, Nahri suspected it had been searched after Manizheh’s invasion.
So when she ran her fingers under the crossbeams, it was with trepidation. Then her heart skipped, her hand landing on the linen-wrapped blade she’d slipped there nearly a year ago.
Dara’s dagger.
Nahri pulled free the jeweled knife and unwrapped it. The polished iron glimmered in the dim light of her curtained room, the carnelians and lapis stones twinkling. She stared at the dagger, remembering the day Dara had taught her to throw it, his laugh tickling her ear. Grief rose up in her, but it had a different flavor now. A less bitter one.
I hope you earn your happy ending, Dara. I really do. Resheathing the dagger, Nahri set it next to the reed boat and the clothes she intended to bring back.
There was a soft knock. She glanced back.
Ali waited at the open door.
In the midmorning light, he seemed to stand apart, a quiet, roiling void. Ribbons of mist played around his feet, the yellow in his eyes glowing faintly, like a cat’s gaze. The sun caught on what was visible of his scars, the silver molten and dazzling against his black skin.
He came back different. Fiza’s parting words on the beach in Shefala, right before the pirate captain raced off with Jamshid, returned to Nahri. Nahri had been prepared, or at least, she’d tried to be, masking her shock as quickly as possible when she woke to see Ali at her side, the soft gray of his eyes replaced by Sobek’s reptilian yellow-and-black. But his stilted words—for they’d barely seen each other since the battle and had yet to be alone—had only provoked more questions.
I am to be an ambassador between our peoples. They changed me so I could speak for them.
And indeed, half hidden in the shadows, Ali looked the part. A visitor from the deep, the envoy of a mysterious, unknowable world at the bottom of the sea.
He spoke softly, greeting her in the way she’d taught him. “Sabah el hayr.”
“Sabah el noor,” Nahri replied, rising to her feet.
Ali crossed and uncrossed his arms, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “I hope you don’t mind me intruding. I heard you were here and figured I should come by. I know it’s been a couple
