A Guide to Charming Royals

Chapter Two: ARIAH

As a child, we were often told there was something quite unpleasant about our anger. Combined with the fact that we had the power to do anything, we almost always went uncontrolled. But over the years, we learned to reign in our emotions, bottle them up so tightly, that the only expressions playing on our face were based on what people wanted to see.

It's easy to remind ourself of this as we walk down the hallway stretching toward the art room behind a guard, who moves elegantly fast. Potlights follow our every step, the brightness making our eyes ache. Before we've stopped at our destination, the guard knocks on the grey door, pulling it open for us. Instantly, an icy wind snakes toward us, beckoning us forward. We don't move though, lingering to the side as Samir scouts the room–or is about to, before a voice calls from the inside.

"It's only me," Deen says. "The room is clear for the princess to enter."

Samir's chin touches his chest, as he steps to the side and lets us pass. We offer him a smile, plucking out one of the yellow roses from the bouquet we picked out for Deen. His eyes flicker toward us for a brief moment, pink tinting his cheeks as he says in Urdu, "Thank you, Your Royal Highness."

"Of course, Samir." We pass by him and into the frigid lair that helps calm down the surge of red bubbling up within us at the reminder of how much of an imbecile Deen is.

We chant our mantra, reminding ourself that we are a good person, an amazing friend and an even better princess.

Deen sits in a blue armchair facing the television, his back turned to the art pieces on the white walls. He is surrounded by pieces of our soul, stories of joys and unease we have not shared with anyone.

"Why were you following us?" we ask, even though our first thought is to acknowledge that we had been right. Deen is back in Calgary, sitting in our pretend home, among our very real paintings and somehow making it feel like he is the one who belongs here instead of us, just as easily as he belongs as a number assigned to our security.

The culprit shoots us a smile, crooked, mischievous and wrong in all the ways that matter. He crosses his knee over the other, leaning back in his seat. "Call me envious, Şehzadi, but I thought I'm your best friend."

"You're Şehzadi Ariah's best friend," we answer, stepping toward him, as he tilts his head back, black hair falling to the side. He observes one of our unfinished paintings on a canvas by the open window–a penguin in a forest–and lets out an incoherent response. Once we're close enough, we stand between him and the painting, offering him the bouquet. "Leila's Ariah's best friend. There's a difference."

The cold smashes against our back, causing a shiver to run down our body. We grab the faux fur throw from his shoulders and wrap it across our own. We fold ourself into the armchair across from him. Deen rises from his seat, holding the roses in one hand as he uses his free hand to close the window.

Still, the iciness from outside lingers, harshly tugging at us and demanding to be felt.

When he shifts, the moon glints off the gun on his waistband, and a dagger attached to his shin. There used to be a time when we would play with plastic guns, running across the palace garden and pretending to shoot each other down. Why does it feel like time didn't walk but suddenly ran? That we went from being eleven-years-old to a twenty-two-year-old who feels like the boy in front of her is a stranger, a remnant of her past life? We have to tell ourself to stop being dramatic, that we last saw him eleven weeks ago when he'd brought us dessert from Riyadh for our birthday. He's still our Deen. He will always be our Deen.

"And right now, we're Ariah, asking you why you stole our letter? What was going through your head? Was it something along the lines of 'no, no, Şehzadi can't tell anyone about her identity.'?"