Dead Girls Tell No Tales

n i n e

SHAHRAZAD'S SKIN BURNS EVEN AS SUDS of foam travel down her back, failing to erase the lining of darkness, the ghosting of lips. She can still feel the lightest skim on the back of her hand, and despite her efforts to rid it, she can't.

She can't erase him. Even if she wants to.

"Enough with the scratching," Laleh mutters, easing a porcelain jug of water over her head "I mean it, Malika, quit this childishness."

She perches at the edge of the bed, ignoring the draping of fabric on her, the ringing of silver bangles, the perfected lining of kohl.

Shahryar is the sun, and she is the moon. They are meant to destroy each other.

"Is the prisoner's background clear?" She asks, carefully. "Is he one of us?"

"I am not really sure, but Anwar is trying to figure," Laleh answers, eating the food off the table, raising an eyebrow then. "You're not thinking of doing something reckless, are you?"

She shakes her head, a heave bubbling from her tired body. The last time she ventured into forbidden areas, the King had terrified her, shut the doors. His wrath isn't something she wants to willingly enrage. It still confuses her why he pushed her away from the room of dead roses, from the eerie painting on the wall. There was an unplaced familiarity in those features in the portrait, those unmistakable cruel eyes, like there is some correlation between that man and the one that taunts her every day. "Did you know Khalifa's father?"

It is an abrupt question, causing Laleh to double slightly. There is uncertainty in her eyes, the slim layer of guilt. She hesitates, the words almost forced, "No, but my mother did. She used to work in the palace during his reign."

"Tell me about it," Shahrazad says, albeit intrigued. She rests her elbows on the cushioning, lying on her stomach to face the handmaiden with a flicker of curiousity. The first step to destroying an enemy is to calculate his weakness, and the more she uncovers beneath the cold king, the closer she is to ruining his empire. Even if she's having doubts about it.

"His name was Rashid," Laleh explains cautiously, pulling the shutters over the ivory panes to prevent light from seeping into the chambers. "He ascended the throne quite late, around the age of thirty, perhaps. Rumours are that he was so sick of waiting for the kingdom that he killed his father. While people aren't sure about that, given his streak of murders, I think that it is likely that he did."

She smoothens the layer of her garment, reluctance filling the spaces. "My mother used to work in the palace at that time. She was present when he married Khalifa's mother, but it wasn't-- it wasn't a happy marriage, Shahrazad. He did not care about her at all. It was simply an alliance between her father's kingdom and his. Maama used to tend the queen, and according to her, Rashid was impatient for an heir, overwhelmingly so."

"And then she bore the child with a servant," Shahrazad completes. "Because he began abusing her. When did he figure that Shahryar wasn't his blood?"

At this, Laleh nervously wrings her fingers, laces them, unlaces them. Her bones are shaking, rattling. "I was seven at the time, and I had nothing to do with it--"