A Guide to Charming Royals

Chapter Sixteen: ARIAH

We circle our teacup around the picture frame on the side table in the loft, trying to find a way to move it without touching the photograph. It's difficult because our fingers keep grazing the metal frame, causing Deen to snicker. Eventually, he reaches toward the table, plucks out the picture, and says, "There, now you'll successfully make a circle."

He sips from his cup, glancing at the photo of a two-year-old us in Abba Shah's arms, while Malka Maa holds Myza Aapi. A perfect family, or a semblance of one until a year later Myza Aapi's leukemia diagnosis ruined everything.

Once he sets the frame down, his eyes cast toward us. The light from the hallway is so far away, shadows falling over his face, marking us both in darkness. Still, we see the way he looks at us, like he does every so often, searching for someone or something he can't quite find.

"Do you miss her?" he asks.

A heartbeat later, we say, "Can you miss someone you never quite knew?"

"I think the same about our parents. I was four or so when they died, and barely have any solid memories of them. Dada always spoke of them, and sometimes I think I do know them, maybe not personally, but in the stories I was told as a child." The wind bites at the window like a snarling animal, shouting and shouting. Quietly, he adds, "But it's not the same for you is it? Because no one talks about Şehzadi Myza. So, you're right, how can you really remember her?"

With a glance at the clock above the mantelpiece, it's clear that as midnight nears, Deen slips into his philosophical phase. We don't stop him, we never do, because we know there is some ache he carries, some part of him beyond the jokes and smiles, and loyalty and love for our family, that is in pain. That is still stuck in the past, in his thirteen-year-old body, who had cried for three days straight in our front garden, the same place his grandfather tended to before he passed away.

From then, until however long he needs it, we'll continue to sit by him like we'd done in the palace garden, letting him lean on our shoulder, because even at the mere age of eight, we understood what it was to feel lonely when surrounded by familiar faces.

"You're not doing your parents or your grandfather wrong if you can't remember them," we say softly. "You were only thirteen when your grandfather passed away, and even younger when your parents did."

He raises a brow. "You didn't answer my question."

"We did. You asked about Myza Aapi, but we know you're really trying to figure out if it's okay for you to move on from remembering your loved ones. Moving on doesn't mean forgetting, Deen. It just means looking back at the past, at the sadness and happiness, and understanding that most of the time, we don't ask for the things life throws at us. They just happen, and we need to live through it."

"Your answer changes each time," he mumbles. "Somehow fitting what we want to hear."

We chuckle. "We have a talent for that."

"Why'd you say Leila was pulling a Deen earlier?"

A shrug. "You and her, you're both kind of similar. Do you like her?"

Footsteps sound in the distance, someone climbing up the stairs.

"She seems like a good person, but I don't feel good about you telling her who you are without seeking Dadi Jaan's permission first."

We don't answer, shifting in the arm chair to look at the top step, where Uncle Jaleel stands. He turns on the light, momentarily blinding us both as he approaches with a plate full of scones. The aroma of chocolate fills the room.

"I know you three said you ate from outside, but I don't like the idea of any of you going to sleep without having anything made by me. So, I baked chocolate chip scones for you."

Instantly, Deen rises, pressing a kiss to Uncle Jaleel's cheek. "You're the best. I would have been really upset if I missed out on your scones."

He offers the plate to us, and we accept one scone for ourself.

"Thank you, Uncle Jaleel. Have you shared them with Madyan yet?"

Uncle Jaleel scratches his chin. "Not yet. I came to you both first."

I stand, accepting the plate from him. "Don't worry, we'll share with Madyan. Why don't you have a seat and speak with Deen? You've done enough work for the day."

Deen grabs two more scones for himself, and one for Uncle Jaleel, before he lets us take the plate out of the room. Just as we're leaving, we turn, watching him ease into a conversation with Uncle Jaleel, telling him about the food at the buffet, the dishes he must try to make.

It doesn't matter to us if Allah accepts our prayers for ourself, but with every ounce of goodness in our heart, we wish Deen receives all the happiness in this world and the next.

#

Madyan stands in the drawing room, surrounded by our paintings, some finished, others incomplete. Unlike Deen, he doesn't blend into the room, does not mark his presence as though he belongs among our arts, our expression of feelings, rather he is an outsider, trying to peek in, and we think he has found that he does not understand the language we speak.

"You run from us, only to end up among our items," we say, standing in the doorway, uncertain if we'll frighten him by stepping into the room. He spins, eyes widening a fraction, before he digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Can't stay away for long, can you?"

He moves, taking long strides toward the door. "We were leaving."

"Stay." We offer him the plate of scones. "Uncle Jaleel made us scones. He's a very good chef, you should have a taste."

"We're not hungry."

We enter the room, setting the plate down on the coffee table. "You used 'I' around Leila instead of 'we'."

Madyan remains near the window, eyes on the canvas of a penguin in a forest. We haven't worked on the painting, not for weeks now. "You told us last night about her not liking it. You know, you're not the only one who excels at conversing with people. We pick up on cues too."

"Ah," we murmur. "We love a good competition."

"We don't want to compete with you."

We slump into a blue armchair, breaking a scone in half, before we take a bite of the center. The buttery dough melts in our mouth. "Some competition is healthy in any relationship."

"We don't see you competing with Leila."

Not a question, rather an observation.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A tree branch scrapes against the window, bowing to the wind's call. Madyan moves away, steady footsteps pacing the room. "You lied about your grade. Just this morning during breakfast, you said you received an A. Why did it turn into an A- in front of Leila?"

Because we noticed the way she'd looked at us during archery, and we don't want Leila to feel differently about us, we want to say. Because we're afraid that she might start thinking we have certain advantages in life that she does not.

But those are not words to be spoken aloud. They are restless thoughts that die on our lips before we can get them out.

We grin. "We're so struck by the fact that you actually pay attention to what we say. Turns out, you do like listening to us."

"No, we don't. You threatened us with the video, so we had no choice. We'll get going now."

"You should be glad at least we want you," we call after him. He pauses, a deadly calm contorting his features as he meets our gaze. Our brows furrow, at the sudden change in his expression, before our mistake settles in. "That's not what we meant, Madyan. We didn't mean to imply you're unwanted. We know–"

"We don't care what you think of us," he says, a horrible quietness to his voice, and then he's gone.

Icy kisses press down our spine as the wind moans, a low, terrible sound haunting us long after Madyan's footsteps fade down the hall.