Dead Girls Tell No Tales

t h r e e

SHAHRAZAD COLLAPSES BETWEEN the cushions, heart beating twice faster than normal. The walls feel less riveting, and she soaks in the golden spun sunlight that blossoms proudly. It scorches her skin, reminding her that it is a new dawn, a beginning awaited.

She is alive.

"Nobody has survived the morning," the handsmaiden says quietly, arranging silver goblets strewn across the table. "I have been collecting dead bodies for three years, and not one has seen the sun."

She glides across the room on anklet adorned feet, hauling Shahrazad towards the resplendent bath that has been filled with milk and perfume oils. After being bathed, she is decked in glimmering jewellery and silks like the night before, decorated as a bait to please her tormentor. All the while, Shahrazad stares at her reflection in the mirror with an unfamiliar detachment.

"I know what you are here for, Malika," the maid points, sliding studded coloured glass bangles onto the young queen's wrists. "Your father has sizeable supporters in the palace but nobody can truly stand up against the Khalifa."

"Why does the King insist on such an execution?" Shahrazad asks, the clanking of trinkets against homespun embroidery suffocating. She exhales shakily, leaning her dainty elbows on the balcony, her kohl-lined eyes running over the sprawling desert. As soon as the night descends, so will he, intending on making it her last. He had assured her of that. Perhaps her words will fail her tonight, and the sun of tomorrow will be one she will never have the fortune of revelling. "I wish to explore the palace, Laleh."

"You are supposed to remain within your chambers, Malika."

"Shahryar didn't explicitly mention it," she validates, smiling briefly. "And please refer to me by my name."

The girl returns her smile, reducing the tiredness from her features. "You must be sickened of this room."

There is a shifting of cushions, smoothing of shamlas, and then the two women are exiting the room, padding towards the long corridor. Exquisite wallpaper spans the length and breadth, high ceiling expertly domed, giving the interiors a caved facade. It is a palace built from marble and limestone over graves of the innocent.

Shahrazad discreetly commits details to memory, keen to discover signs of weakness, something, anything that can potentially crumble his empire forged on blood. Her fingers rush the expanse of the gilded columns, halting abruptly where the darkness touches the hallway. Unlike the rest of the palace boasting of splendidly lit chandeliers and mosaics, this area is shrouded, devoid of guards. A door stands shut, and instead elaborate handles, it is firmly sealed with an antique lock that starkly sits against the wood. Her hands barely skim the lock when Laleh hisses, "Not that door, Malika. We need to leave now."

"What is the Khalifa hiding?" Shahrazad asks, withdrawing her hand, suddenly wary. Closed doors beckon curiousity, inviting danger.

Laleh dismisses the query, escorting her towards their room as the day outside darkens. Evening sets its pace, awaiting the embrace of night.