This Woven Kingdom by Tahereh Mafi Page B

suspicions, and now the prince’s arrogance would prove only his own idiocy; an instability of mind that would further substantiate the king’s fears for his grandson. In a single day Kamran had made himself into a joke, and he wanted to sink into the earth.
    It was his single thought, repeating like a drumbeat in his head, when Hazan finally found him.

Eleven

    â€œMISS?”
    The apothecarist cleared his throat again, and Alizeh startled. When she looked up, she saw the shopkeeper staring at her hands, which she snatched out of sight.
    â€œI can see that you’re in pain, miss. A good deal, too, it seems.”
    Slowly, Alizeh met his eyes.
    â€œYou need not fear me,” he said quietly. “If I’m to do my job, I must see the damage.”
    Alizeh thought again of her work, how her safety and security depended on her waking up tomorrow and scrubbing yet more floors, stitching more gowns. But if this man saw her clear blood and realized she was Jinn, he might refuse to serve her; and if he turned her out of his store she’d have to walk to the apothecary on the other side of the city—which, though not impossible to manage, would be both difficult and exhausting, and would take another day to arrange.
    Alizeh sighed. She was left with little choice.
    With painful effort, she unwrapped the damp, makeshift bandages and rested her bare hands atop the counter, palms up, for the apothecarist to examine.
    He sucked in his breath at the sight.
    Alizeh tried to see her injuries through his eyes: the raw,shredded skin, the blistered fingers, the blood most people mistook for water. The normally pale skin of her palms was now a garish red, throbbing with pain. She wanted desperately to wrap them anew, to clench her fists against the searing burn.
    â€œI see,” said the man, which Alizeh took as her cue to withdraw. She waited, body tensed for a hostile attack, but the apothecarist did not insult her, nor did he ask her to leave his store.
    By degrees, Alizeh relaxed.
    In fact, he said nothing more as he collected items from around his shop, measuring into burlap pouches various herbs, snipping strips of linen for her wounds. She felt immeasurable gratitude as she stood there defrosting in her boots, snowmelt puddling in shallow pools around her feet. She could not see the eyes watching her from the window, but she soon felt them, felt the disturbing, specific fear of one who knows she’s being watched but cannot prove it.
    Alizeh swallowed.
    When the apothecarist finally returned to his post, he was carrying a small basket of remedies, which he proceeded to crush into a thick paste with mortar and pestle. He then procured from under the counter what looked like a paintbrush.
    â€œPlease have a seat”—he gestured to one of the tall stools at the counter—“and pay attention to what I do, miss. You’ll need to repeat these next steps at home.”
    Alizeh nodded, grateful as her tired body sank into the upholstered seat. She feared she might never stand up again.
    â€œPlease hold out your hands.”
    Alizeh complied. She watched closely as he painted a bright blue salve onto her palms in a single stroke, the calming effect so immediate she nearly cried out from relief.
    â€œYou must keep everything clean,” he was saying, “and change the bandages every other day. I’ll show you how to wrap them properly.”
    â€œYes, sir,” she breathed. She squeezed her eyes shut as he wound fresh strips of linen around her hands, between her split fingers. It was a bliss unlike any she’d experienced in recent memory.
    Quietly, he said: “It isn’t right.”
    â€œThe bandages?” Alizeh looked up. “Oh, no, sir, I think—”
    â€œ This ,” he said, lifting her hands closer to the lamplight. Even half-wrapped and covered in salve, the picture was tragic. “They work you too hard, miss. It isn’t