The Candle and the Flame: Chapters 17–27

Fatima Ghazala thinks wistfully of the rooftop that belonged to her in the chill of the early dawn air; she thinks of the muezzin's call, so close once that it seemed like he was calling especially to her.

The women left in Southern Aftab are younger in age and seek more secular ways to spend their time.

“We have been eagerly waiting to see what wonderful things you have brought us, Ruchika," Bhavya says, deliberately sounding as magnanimous as she can.

After being surrounded by obsequious courtiers, it is disconcerting to find someone who doesn't pretend to be impressed by her.

"Sunaina, you haven't greeted the maharani," Maya admonishes.

"Where are you originally from?" Bhavya asks, her curiosity piqued.

No, Fatima Ghazala decides, she will not be the one making conciliatory overtures.

"Do you know the cosmetics chemist, Fatima Ghazala?" the maharani asks, and Fatima Ghazala realizes she hasn't been very circumspect with her expressions.

Books and other paraphernalia are arranged on bookshelves that stand against one wall.

They are like puzzle pieces, straining toward each other, trying to form a whole but being kept from unification by a viscous matter that to Fatima Ghazala's eyes looks very much like grief made tangible.

She knocks, and a familiar, though more querulous, voice bids her enter.

Retaining a veneer of measured calm is becoming difficult, but Zulfikar manages.

She doesn't look back, not once, as the carriage trundles away.

What could a spoiled princess like Bhavya know about grief? About terror? She has spent her entire life being cosseted.

She immediately averts her eyes from him, but that's not enough. He affects her to such a degree that she cannot endure being in the same space as him. It feels like her aversion to the Wazir is increasing each day she spends as...whatever she is.

He has lunch with foreign dignitaries from Darsala, the country they share borders with on the eastern front of Qirat and also the country that Maharani Aruna was born in.

The five men are all suddenly very pale, their bluster from earlier lost in the pallor of their skin.

The strength of his feelings for the Name Giver flusters him. He forces himself to return to his seat, not at all desiring to present himself as an overeager swain.

Do you think that because the Qareen are present on earth since inception, they don't need Name Givers to Name them?

He is quite effusive in his praise in his journals, though he never said more than 'good job' to me during our lessons.

Sunaina winces her way through her apology, aware that she sounds inept but unable to help herself.

A wave of revulsion sweeps over Fatima Ghazala, and she shudders.

Breakfast with her family in the ostentatious dining room is always a stilted affair.

Bhavya waits for her mother to remonstrate Aaruv for his words, for Jayanti Bua to scold him.

"Indeed, you are," Sunaina placates.

She gapes at the building, twin feelings of pity and shame filling her. Pity because she cannot imagine anyone being happy living in such a squalid place. The shame is secondhand because she thinks that the sisters can't be anything but ashamed of showing her the place they used to call home.

Fatima Ghazala makes the introductions without commenting on, or acknowledging, the excoriation Bhavya just received from Sunaina.

The rajkumari accepts the proffered items without protest.

The retinue moves slowly due to the Rajmata's mincing gait.

The retinue moves slowly due to the Rajmata's mincing gait.

You are always concerned that Bhavya behave properly; should this concern not extend also to your son? My companions have long complained about his unwelcome attentions, and I, instead of speaking to the rajkumar, told them to avoid him. I thought that his brother, his mother, or even his aunt would and should speak to him about his proclivities.

The darkness, aided by the jasmine, suddenly feels soft and pliant.

"I would much rather die," she tells him succinctly, and gets up to go.

The other two are sure to go into paroxysms of either joy or disbelief, and Fatima Ghazala is not sure she has the mental wherewithal to deal with that at the moment.

Fatima Ghazala gives Adila a look of abject horror and leaps off the wall. "How could you?" she wails, and takes off running.

However, the delicate nature of the agreement between Fatima Ghazala and Zulfikar is not exactly conducive to public celebration.

"Sahiba, I like shiny things as much as any other woman, but surely you understand why I can't accept these. If you mean them as a way to assuage your conscience, please, you do not need to bother. I hold neither you nor the maharajah responsible for the rajkumar's actions," Fatima Ghazala says.

Her sister is a universe, one of those ephemeral moments; she is both a choice and the consequence of a choice.

What grieves her most, if she is honest, is not the Emir's wedding but what it means for her hope of escaping the fate her mother seems determined to consign her to.

She makes intricate designs, delicate as filigree, and much later when Fatima Ghazala washes the henna off, she finds that rich orange red has bloomed underneath.