“She does not want to take the advice of her physicians?” Jahanara said, the faintest edge creeping into her voice.
“Oh, she listens.” The big warrior woman fell in behind them as they climbed the stairs. “She just chafes at the enforced inactivity. Not much worse than any active person would be in her place, I suppose, but I’ve rarely heard so many mutters and grumblings.”
“She is a master mutterer,” Monique said, grinning. “It helps none of us can understand what she’s saying.”
“I will be sure to admonish her to cease this muttering,” Jahanara said.
“Oh, please don’t, Begum Sahib! It’s nothing she should be challenged on. Her mood is, frankly, fragile. Which I suppose is entirely understandable given the change in her circumstances.”
“Oh?” Jahanara asked as they entered the hall leading to Atisheh’s quarters.
“It couldn’t have been easy to be plucked out of the harem, where she was certain of her place and power and be put here, away from everything she knows and understands.”
“And told she can’t even exercise the skills that set her apart from all others until she heals?” Monique shrugged. “Can’t be easy.”
“I suppose not. Still, she should be polite at the very least.”
Priscilla chuckled. “If you only knew what trying to treat a meth head was like.”
“A what?” Monique and the princess said at nearly the same time.
“Users of a particular up-time drug. They got on my last nerve. Mostly because they would not shut up. Not. Ever. That, and the fact that every time they opened their mouths they were lying.”
Their conversation had brought them to Atisheh’s door. Swallowing a sudden fear that Atisheh would be resentful of their intrusion, Priscilla raised a hand and knocked.
“Unless you’re bringing me my armor and a blade, you can just turn around and go.”
The elephant Jahanara had ridden here chose that moment to bugle a short challenge.
“Um, Atisheh, there’s someone here to see you.”
One of the mutters Monique had spoken of penetrated the door, closely followed by two other sounds: the noise of someone hurrying to their feet and Jahanara’s sharp intake of breath.
Priscilla looked at the princess and saw a tightness around her eyes as Jahanara removed her veil.
“Atisheh, is that how you speak to your physicians?” Jahanara asked, lips a tight line.
Atisheh said something unintelligible but caustic as more fumbling noises reached their ears.
Taking pity on her patient, Priscilla said, “Shall we wait for you downstairs?”
The door popped open at that moment, revealing a disheveled, if dressed, Atisheh.
“Begum Sahib, I beg forgiveness. I did not know it was you.”
“Do you often hear the drums announcing an imperial procession here at Mission House?”
Atisheh looked confused as she tried to explain, “I was dreaming, or so I thought.”
“You look well, Atisheh.”
It was only a slight exaggeration: Atisheh had none of the deathly pallor she’d had in those first days after her wounding, but she did look ready to punch something or someone, hard.
“Do I, Begum Sahib?” Atisheh asked the question of her princess, but directed a very pointed look at Priscilla as she did so.
Jahanara hesitated, probably realizing she had stumbled onto delicate ground. “You seem well on your way to a full recovery, I mean.”
“I believe I would already be fully recovered if my jailers”—she nodded at Priscilla—“would allow me to ride, hunt, and practice at arms.”
Priscilla shook her head and said, for maybe the twentieth time that week, “If we allowed that, your stitches would have torn and we’d be back at square one, Atisheh. You can’t start working out yet. Not until those stitches are out and your wounds won’t pop open under strain. Not on my watch. A few weeks more and you can start swinging whatever you want around.”
“And still you did not answer my question, Atisheh. Do you speak to your physicians in that manner?”
Priscilla begged Jahanara with a look not to go after the other woman, but the princess was not looking at her, and likely would not have heeded the up-timer if she had.
Atisheh stared at Jahanara’s feet and mumbled, “No, Begum Sahib. Or rather, yes, but I shall stop now.”
“Indeed you shall, Atisheh. Now, apologize to them.”
Opening her mouth to ask Jahanara to knock it off, Priscilla stopped when she saw the effect Jahanara’s words had on Atisheh. It was confusing, but Jahanara’s harsh words seem to have restored Atisheh’s self-image rather than diminish it.
Atisheh had drawn herself up like a soldier at attention. In fact, the woman seemed more herself than at any other time since coming to Mission House.
Priscilla was still trying to digest the change when Jahanara said, “I’m still waiting to hear your apology, Atisheh.”
“Forgive me, Doctor Totman,” Atisheh said, instantly. “I have been muttering unworthy words in response to your care. I will do better in the future.”
“Apology accepted, even if I think it unnecessary,” Priscilla said, glancing aside at the princess in hopes she would be satisfied.
Jahanara nodded, once. “If I may have a private word with Atisheh? It will take only a moment.”
“Of course, Begum Sahib.”
Jahanara stepped into the room.
The door swung closed under the warrior’s hand, but not before they could hear Jahanara hiss, “You call these people goat-fucking pig-milkers in their own home?”
Atisheh’s reply was muted, but the meek tone was unmistakable.
Priscilla stifled a giggle by clapping a hand to her lips.
Monique was less careful, and chuckled outright.
* * *
Jahanara’s gaze slid past the oddly designed furnishings of the bedchamber and fixed on Atisheh as she waited for a response. Faintly, she heard someone chuckle in the hall.
Atisheh, thankfully, did not seem to hear it. The warrior would not look her patron in the eye. “Begum Sahib, please accept my full and abject apologies. I did not consider how poorly my words would reflect upon you. Please forgive my transgressions, I will do better.”
Cold anger leaving her in a rush, Jahanara swallowed a lump in her throat as she had her first good look at Atisheh in some
