In the winding streets of the Persian Empire, a poor girl is chosen to become the third prince's concubine.
Aliya Farhad has no interest in the lofty ideas of the palace, the staff, or her lover. Prince Cairo has all the interest in his blue-eyed A...
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THE ROAD TO THE SQUARE was the nicest one you'd find in Babylon; which wasn't a hard title to earn, considering it was the only one paved with actual stones and not falling sticks. But considering the parties that would pass. it was no surprise that the mayor would only be willing to repair the street that the King's men would see.
Our mayor was very proud to be a suck up, and that was his only tolerable quality.
By the time I reached the piaza, it was especially crowded, the smell of perfume and kohl incense permeating the air. There were girls who looked as if they hadn't even reached fifteen yet, still holding hands with their mamas (their fathers and brothers no doubt left behind for tonight) and girls old enough to look like an actual mama, all dolled up in colorful scarves and dresses.
An image of a thousand cocking peacocks flashed through my head, all flaunting their feathers in hopes of attracting a mate, and I bit my lip to conceal my laugh.
Falling behind a girl wearing neon green headscarf, I shoved myself in between two fussing mamas, straining to see above the bobs of colorful heads.
When you consider the fact that I was short — very short, really, but not exactly very small — and the fact that nearly all of Babylon was now sandwiched into a shoving, sweaty mess, it was impossible.
"Why are we all queuing here? Where are the princes?" One girl whisper-shouted to her friend, her bangles jingling.
"There aren't any princes," the other one whispered back, her voice just loud enough for me to hear. "The Princes send delegates here, handpicked ones, one for each of them. See the counter over there?"
I did not.
"Yes."
"Okay, see those three people sitting there? The one in the red, green, and blue robes? Those are each of the princes' delegates; the red one is for Prince Raza — he's my pick, by the way, so if they pick both of us, you need to choose a different prince — the green robed man works under Prince Finn, and the blue one, Prince Cairo; don't choose him, though, he's a concubine's son."
"Oh. So technically, he's not royal?"
"Well, I mean—"
"Silence!" A loud voice cut the crowd, and as people began to hush and descend from their tip toes, I could just barely make out a man in a red robe slamming his hand down on the table.
Oh. They changed delegates?
Most of the time, the people sent as delegates were tall, tan, handsome men, their clothes screaming noble and royal and rich by the handful. They were all soldiers, of course, and would boast it to everybody before the selection process even began.
This one and — a quick glance at the confused frowns in front of me — all of the new delegates, it seemed, did not embody that.
The man in red was short and portly, with a thick moustache and a curly little strand of hair falling from his headscarf. From head to toe he was garbed in bright, crimson red, and as he glared into the crowd, I saw the apples of his tan cheeks turn red, too.
