Page 1 of Every Spiral of Fate (This Woven Kingdom #4)

One

ALIZEH STITCHED IN THE KITCHEN by the light of star and fire, sitting, as she often did, curled up inside the hearth.

Moonbeams slanted through the diamond-cut windows, bathing her in silver as she deftly embroidered goldwork roses, the metallic threads glimmering against a backdrop of flame.

Her movements were deceptively efficient, these practiced motions elevating the excruciating work to a venture so effortless that many a gaping idiot had felt emboldened to suggest that they, too, might stitch together a wedding ensemble in a sequence of hours, if only they had the time.

“It don’t seem hard at all,” announced a stable boy to the coachman, his face squashed against the windowpane. The boy blinked, glass smearing against one widened eye. “Quick and easy, see? Don’t know why everyone is yappin’ ’bout it.”

The coachman, a grizzled fellow who’d once earned a smile from Alizeh in broad daylight, gave the boy a shove before dragging him back toward the stables.

“Feckless ingrate,” he muttered, tossing a dark look at the clutch of incomers shoving into the vacated positions by the window.

The new arrivals were by trade a blacksmith, a shepherd, and a fletcher, respectively, yet just then the trio took up the common work of squashing their cheeks and noses against royal glass.

The warm breath of gossip occasionally fogged from view the very subject of all their discussion; one could almost hear the squeak of a sleeve rubbing circles upon the window.

Alizeh managed to smile.

She might be encouraged to find the situation funny if it weren’t for the fact that every window she encountered depicted the same scene: faces pressed like dough in a frame, teeth knocking against the casement as lips moved, fingers searching for purchase as legs pushed up on toes for a better look.

Curtains had proven useless against the relentlessly curious, who saw the draperies as an obstacle to be overcome with etiquette: they simply knocked at the darkened windows until someone came to draw the shades.

Invisibility was futile, as Alizeh’s onlookers were a healthy mix of Jinn and Clay; and though she might’ve sought refuge in a room higher up in the castle, she was afraid to stray too far from Cyrus, who, after surviving the gruesome blood oath, had been delivered to an accessible guest room on a lower floor.

Her preference, of course, had been to take shelter beside him—but as this was no longer an option, she’d been forced to take refuge in the familiar.

Alizeh shifted away from the flames, less inclined to pitch her typically frozen body into the fire now that Cyrus’s steaming blood ran through her veins. In fact, recently she’d been experiencing an altogether novel sensation: sometimes she ran quite hot.

She took a breath, paused her needle, smoothed the fabric, and reminded herself to look up at her audience.

Cook was sitting at the long wooden table bisecting the kitchen, face propped up in her hands, forgetting to blink as she stared.

A gaggle of snodas had been extruded into the room over the course of an hour; now, a neat dozen stood gawping before her.

Footmen gilded the walls; a house cat shot her an arch look as she slunk past; the butler stood frozen, parcels in hand, before the pantry door.

Alizeh rolled her shoulders back and brazened through these indignities. She lifted a hand to acknowledge the many eyes aimed in her direction, and even attempted a smile at the fogging windows; but with three pins between her teeth, the impact was uneven.

Still, at her salutation, the murmur of unintelligible voices grew suddenly more chaotic.

Fists pounded at sashes; knuckles pecked at glass.

Cook sat back in her seat, wood screeching.

The snodas recoiled and sprang apart, like startled birds.

The cat took a cautious step closer, poised to nick her position near the fire.

Alizeh cleared her throat, then lowered her eyes.

Having spent so many years as a servant, she’d come to think of the hearth as an extension of herself.

Unconsciously, she’d formed positive associations with the sundry sounds of a kitchen: knives slicing and kettles boiling and bristles brushing.

Even now she could smell dried herbs; the spritz of lemon; the bite of copper polish.

She loved the whiff of milk soap; the crackle of a good fire; the clouds of flour.

A quiet, clean kitchen at the end of a difficult day had long been a place of refuge for a snoda without a home of her own.

And heavens, but these had been difficult days.

The trouble was, these habits of hers were familiar to no one else.

Certainly no one could understand her need to be braced by something— anything —familiar, no matter the impropriety.

Then again, they might be forgiven for finding the actions of a prophesied Jinn queen confounding, for the royal household had only recently been introduced to Alizeh, as she’d been heretofore hidden away at the Diviners Quarters for nearly a month without word.

Now the wedding was nearly upon them, and the impending queen of Tulan had finally stepped into full view of the royal household, exposing herself, at long last, to a breathlessly awaited inspection.

The results were so far inconclusive.

While most everyone agreed that the bride-to-be was possessed of a devastating beauty, there was no consensus yet as to whether she was in possession of a sound mind.

Or the king’s heart, for that matter.

Alizeh exhaled sharply at the thought, the action unsettling whorls of ash into the air.

Perhaps , she considered, it was time to retire.

With great care she gathered up her needles and notions, snapping everything into an ornate sewing case that had appeared just minutes after she’d asked the housekeeper for supplies.

Gently, she folded into her arms the shimmering heft of a silk-lined cape, which was all but finished.

She’d been working tirelessly these past few days, and this article was the last of the ensemble; any loose threads could be snipped in the morning.

Alizeh stood and shook out her skirts.

Cook jumped up so quickly she knocked over her chair. “Your Majesty,” she said, and curtsied. Then bowed. Then, after a moment’s consideration, saluted.

“Please, do sit down,” said Alizeh gently. “You need not trouble yourself.”

At the sound of her voice, the snodas shrieked; the footmen all but ran from the room; the butler clasped his aging heart, dropped his parcels, then bent in half at the waist.

Alizeh tried to hold her smile with all the graciousness of a queen.

“I’m so grateful for all you’ve done in preparation for tomorrow,” she said to the assembled staff, taking care to lift her eyes to the windows, too, as she spoke.

“I’m terribly sorry for all the delays. I know I’ve said this many times already, but I hope you know how happy I am to be joining your household.

I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone better, in time. ”

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” said the butler, still bent in half.

Then, hesitantly, his eyes on the ground, he said, “Are you quite confident the king will appear tomorrow?”

Alizeh’s cheeks heated.

She was preparing a diplomatic answer to this question when the housekeeper, a Mrs. Zaynab, strode into the room carrying an armful of linens. The woman gasped at the sight of her, then shied against the wall.

“Your Majesty,” she breathed. “I beg your pardon, I wasn’t expecting—”

“I apologize,” said Alizeh, who’d gone rigid with self-loathing. “I never meant to make the staff uncomfortable.” She lowered her voice even as her head remained high. “Forgive me.”

And she quit the room with as much dignity as she could muster.