The Theft of Sunlight, Intisar Khanani [best book club books for discussion txt] 📗

away so Alyrra won’t see my revulsion. It’s not the horse’s fault. Or the princess’s—at least, I doubt it, given that she clearly mourns what’s been done to the creature.

“Farewell, Falada,” the princess says, and I’m grateful she didn’t notice my reaction.

Princess. The word drifts up from the grave, soft as a spring breeze. My gaze jerks back to the horse’s head, only now its eyes are open and seeing, the stitching gone. Its lips, however, do not move, even as its voice murmurs, Farewell.

I don’t know what magic this is, what could possibly cause a horse’s head to open its eyes and send words up from its grave. Nothing comes back from the dead, or so I’ve always been taught.

“Farewell,” Alyrra says again, as if there were nothing strange here whatsoever. Kestrin stoops and lifts a sheet from where it lies folded at the foot of the grave. At Alyrra’s nod, he shakes it out and bends, letting it go as it flutters down to cover the head. With a soft sigh, Alyrra turns and moves past me, toward the carriage.

Kestrin falls into step with her. I stare at him, and he flicks his fingers toward the carriage, reminding me to move, before returning his gaze to the princess.

Right. Move. Because I did not just see some grisly horror within the grave, nor then see it transform and hear it speak.

The ride back passes quietly. Alyrra does not seem given to conversation, and Kestrin, after a few quiet words, lets her be. I am grateful for the silence, grateful that I do not have to listen or respond to anything, for my mind is too busy wrestling with the reality of what I’ve seen.

By the time we arrive at the palace, I have made up half a story to explain the inexplicable: the impostor had the princess’s horse killed, its head nailed to a plaque as a reminder to the princess to keep her silence, or distance, or whatever it was the impostor wished. It seems possible, but does not even begin to explain how a disembodied horse’s head opened its eyes and spoke.

Perhaps Filadon knows. But no. I might ask after a gray or white horse the princess once had, but I sincerely doubt the princess wants me spreading rumors about, or even confidentially inquiring after, horses that speak from the grave. Literally. If I want direct answers, I will need to ask her, or not ask at all.

I grip my hands together in my lap, keep my gaze lowered, and remind myself that the creature at least did not seem evil. There was nothing dark or malicious in its look. In truth, when it opened its eyes, it was a sight less grim than when it slept with its eyes stitched shut. And it is clearly being buried. Whatever secrets it carries, whatever truths the princess wishes kept silent, they will end there, at that grave.

At the palace, Kestrin escorts the princess up to her rooms, bidding her adieu at her door. I follow her in. She pauses a moment, her gaze going to the bell pulls along the wall, the green one to call her attendants, the blue to raise the alarm in the guard room, the cream for the servants. Then she turns to me, evidently deciding I am better than a bell pull, and holds out my kerchief.

“Thank you, Amraeya,” she says. “You will want to change into something dry, I’m sure. I am going into my room. Send Jasmine and Zaria in to me, would you?”

“Of course, zayyida,” I say, taking the kerchief. It is damp in my hand, a testament to her tears. Her eyes are faintly pink even now.

I curtsy and let myself out, grateful to leave the princess and her secret grief.

Chapter

12

I raise my hand to knock on the doorframe to Jasmine and Zaria’s room. The door is cracked open, but I don’t feel so friendly with the women within that I might just swing it open.

“What was the prince thinking?” Zaria demands. I pause despite myself—surely they don’t know about the horse’s head too? But she goes on, “A cripple? To wait on the princess after all she’s been through? I would have been insulted.”

“She doesn’t know enough to be,” Jasmine says lightly. “Imagine, an attendant who can’t even curtsy properly!”

I let my hand drop, my cheeks burning with mortification. But I can’t curtsy any better; my foot won’t allow it.

Jasmine says, “But then, perhaps it merely requires a different perspective. Our barnyard princess, lover of animals that she is, has taken in a little lame mongrel. Why should any of us be surprised?”

My hands curl into fists at my side as Zaria titters in response. Barnyard princess? Lame mongrel? How dare they?

“Oh, but Jasmine, think on it! This peasant knows nothing! And she’ll be an embarrassment to the princess wherever they go, hobbling about like a—well, like a lame dog. Why would the princess do such a thing?”

“Why would the prince? Really, the girl grew up on a horse farm. As if dressing and attending a princess were akin to saddling a horse! I tried, Zaria. Truly, I did.”

“Did you?” Zaria says, her questioning tone echoing my sentiments. What does Jasmine think she did other than mock the princess?

“The walls! And I was so obvious about it! A peasant has no place in the palace proper. The only way to show such a creature the city from the palace is up on the walls with the common soldiers. And what does the princess do? Go running up there with her pet in tow. You would think she had more sense!”

“Oh,” Zaria says uncertainly. “Is that what you meant?”

No, it wasn’t. I remember clearly Jasmine’s snide amusement as we started off for the walls. That wasn’t what she meant at all; this is just the story she wants spread so that the princess will look a fool rather than Jasmine herself appear malicious. Trickery is