Gifting Fire, Alina Boyden [books to read for self improvement .txt] 📗

the room, trailed by one of her handmaidens, who must have rushed out to warn her that something unusual was going on. I forced myself to smile, because that was how the game was played, even with our hatred of each other out in the open now. “Mother-in-law, how lovely you look this morning.”

“And you as well, daughter-in-law,” she replied, plastering on a fake smile of her own. “Your makeup is so expertly applied, it makes that mutilated nose of yours look almost normal.”

“Thank you,” I replied, my eyes flashing with malice. I strutted over to her, enjoying the look of surprise and fear on her face. I reached over and tugged at the silken hem of her blouse. “This is so beautiful. Is it new?”

“Yes, I had it made just this week.” Asma preened.

“I thought so,” I said. “Your tailor has cut it so perfectly. It’s so much more slimming than your other ones.”

Asma’s maidservants gaped at me in mute horror as the old woman’s cheeks darkened with embarrassment. The hate I saw in her eyes made the whole thing worth it, and I was sure I returned it tenfold.

“Razia,” Hina said, coming to stand beside me, “you didn’t get a chance to finish the story you were telling me earlier. How many men was it you killed in the assault on Shikarpur?”

“With my zahhak or with my katars?” I asked, not taking my eyes off Asma’s face. Her eyebrows shot up. Had she forgotten that?

“I only count men I kill with my own hands,” Hina replied, giving Asma a death stare of her own.

“Just the one, then,” I confessed. “But I did put my katar right through his neck, in one side and out the other.” I let my eyes flicker from Asma’s face to the hollow of her throat and back up, one side of my mouth quirking upward in a lopsided grin.

“Is everything all right in here?”

I looked up as Karim stepped into the room. He was noticing the way that Asma and her handmaidens had more or less squared off against myself and Hina.

“Everything is fine, your highness,” I said, before Asma could muster any words at all. “I was just admiring your mother’s new blouse. It’s very becoming. She has a very fine tailor.” I turned my eyes from Asma to Karim, and pretended to stare and grin. “As do you, your highness.”

His shoulders relaxed, and he came to greet me as he always did in the morning, taking my upper arms in his hands, rubbing them through the silk fabric of my blouse. “And you’ve decided to be a Zindhi today?”

“Well, I am the subahdar, your highness,” I reminded him, my voice slightly mocking, like I knew better than to really believe I was in charge here.

“You are,” he agreed, in much the same tone. What a delightful joke.

“Do you suppose there will be any pomegranates at breakfast this morning, your highness?” I asked, leading Karim from the room, totally ignoring his mother—and the best part was that he didn’t seem to notice, because he was too busy staring at my chest.

“Are they your favorite?” he asked.

“This time of year,” I allowed, “though I prefer the mangoes from Nizam. My servants used to keep great bowls of them in my bedchambers, and the air would be filled with their sweet aroma day and night.”

He smiled, and I could see him filing that tidbit away in the back of his mind for next year. It would make a lovely gift for the next time he beat me so badly that I needed stitches. Well, I didn’t intend for Karim to survive until the next mango season. I should have felt more conflicted, holding the arm of a man I intended to murder, but I didn’t, not really. He was a threat to me and a threat to Lakshmi, he was a rapist, he had killed Hina’s brother, and he was holding me prisoner. Whatever little baubles he gave me could erase none of those facts.

We strolled together along the walkway that ringed the palace’s innermost garden, the roof over our heads keeping the worst of the sun’s heat at bay, though the evening breezes had stalled overnight, leaving the air still and sticky, like it was most mornings. That was probably why Sultan Ahmed had four servants with fans beating the air for him as he sat on his cushioned dais in the garden’s central baradari. My sisters were there already, waiting for me, and Sakshi’s smile told me that she had dealt with Lakshmi’s climbing shoes, just as I’d asked. Sikander stood behind them, acting the part of the proper guardian.

Sultan Ahmed narrowed his eyes at me as we approached, but only for a brief moment, before directing his attention to his son. “Is your mother not coming?”

“Mother? She’s right—” Karim turned and looked for his mother, only spotting her a moment later, far behind us. I saw the color come to his cheeks as he realized he’d just left her behind, and I allowed myself a small smile. If I couldn’t take pleasure in the little things, then what was the point in living?

Karim stood there shamefaced until his mother had caught up, and he said, “Sorry, Mother, I thought you were right behind us.”

“Oh, is that my place?” Asma asked, arching an eyebrow, her expression absolutely savage.

“No, of course not, Mother,” Karim replied, while she took her place beside her husband.

“It’s all right, dear,” Asma told him, smiling sweetly. “You’re a young man, and young men are wont to be distracted.” She emphasized that last word while looking pointedly at me.

“She is very distracting,” Karim agreed, rubbing my back gently, right between my shoulder blades.

I felt his hand starting to drift lower, toward the handles of my katars, and I pulled away, taking his arm in both hands, grinning. “Well, forgive me, your highness, it was never my intention to distract! Let us sit, so that your mother and father need