Aliya

chapter thirty-six

THE LIBRARY WAS DESERTED AND COLD.

I wasn't sure how I ended up here. I knew I stopped by my bedroom a few minutes ago, though I couldn't remember why. Perhaps it was due to the urge to see Maria; a little friendly, excited face would have made the otherwise dim mood better. After all, even the chatty girls had gone quiet due to the dining room incident, and no one took a glance at each other as they rushed back into their rooms.

I wondered if that meant that I wasn't the only one who'd learned my lesson. Perhaps all the other girls had, too.

When I opened the door to my bedroom, though, the place was eerily tidy and eerily cold.

"Maria?" I called. My bedroom was not big enough for voices to echo, but I could swear something called back out to me.

It wasn't Maria, though.

Slowly, I made my way to the bed. Maria had always done things neatly, and even the edges of the blanket were folded down without any creases. The place, I'd learned, was like this -- beautiful and dreadfully cold, miles that felt like worlds away from the way Khale used to bundle my sheets instead of smoothing them, and patch them up with rags from her own skirt.

"It's been a long while since I wrote to you," I whispered. "I wonder how you've been."

I knew that Maria kept a stack of parchment under my vanity and that my kohl was always on the left chest side of the drawer. But I couldn't bring myself to write a letter to Khale, for there was nothing else to say.

Khale, I feel that I will be stuck here forever.

Khale, I feel like a wooden princess with strings on my arms and a knife to my throat.

Khale, this place is stifling. I feel I may be sucked into oblivion and I'll never even know. You'll never even remember.

Thoughts, I'd learned, were louder than words. My bedroom was clearly empty, but it had never felt as loud.

There was a sudden pain in my hands, and when I looked down, my knuckles had gone white, and the sheets within my fist had crumpled into fine wrinkles.

Sorry, Maria, for ruining all your hard work.

When I looked back up, I caught sight of the thick, yellowed edge of a brown diary, barely hanging out of the wardrobe.

Frowning, I stood up. How strange. I swear I hid it under that red winter dress last time, but how...

As far as I knew, the only person allowed in my room was Maria; only personal chambermaids were allowed in and out of these 'potential concubines' bedrooms. But Maria was not Arabic, and I'd never seen the slightest inclination that she could read it.

Mostly, Maria had never been the type to look through my things.

But who...?

How many people knew I was staying in this wing, in this room, and how many of them had I talked to? The sum of both could be counted on both my hands.