us wanted this, Nahri, but we could try to make it work. I feel like I have no idea what goes on in your head.” His tone was imploring but there was no hiding a hint of exasperation. “You have more walls up than a maze.”
Nahri said nothing. Of course, she had walls up. Nearly everyone she knew had betrayed her at least once.
He rubbed his thumb against her palm. Her fingers twitched, and she made a face. “Lots of stitching today, and I think my internal healing abilities have stopped recognizing aching muscles as an abnormality.”
“Let me.” Muntadhir took her hand in both of his and began to massage it, pressing the joints as though he’d been doing it for years.
Nahri exhaled, some of the tension immediately leaving her sore fingers. “Who taught you how to do this?”
He pulled at her fingers, stretching them out in a way that felt heavenly. “A friend.”
“Were you and said friend wearing clothes at the time of this lesson?”
“You know, considering the friend … it is rather likely we weren’t.” He gave her a wicked smile. “Would you like to know what else she taught me?”
Nahri rolled her eyes. “I won’t unburden myself to you, so now you’re trying to seduce me using knowledge you gained from another woman?”
His grin widened. “Political life has taught me to be creative in my approaches.” He brushed his fingers lightly up her wrist, and Nahri couldn’t help a slight shiver at his touch. “You’re clearly too busy to come to my bed. How else to sustain the peace our marriage alliance was supposed to build?”
“You have no shame; do you know that?” But the edge was gone from her voice. Muntadhir was damnably good at this.
His fingers were tracing delicate patterns on the skin of her wrist, his eyes dancing with mirth. “You don’t complain about that when you do find your way into my bed.”
Heat flooded her cheeks—not all of it from embarrassment. “You’ve slept with half of Daevabad. I’d hope that would teach you some skill.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
The mischief in his expression was not helping with the utterly traitorous unspooling of heat in her belly. “I have work,” she protested as he pulled her onto his lap. “At least a dozen patients waiting. And we’re in the garden. Someone could …” She trailed off as he pressed his mouth to her neck, lightly kissing her throat.
“No one can see anything,” Muntadhir said calmly, his voice sending a brush of warmth against her skin. “And you clearly need to relax. Consider it a professional duty.” His hands slipped underneath her tunic. “Surely your patients will be better served by having a Banu Nahida who’s not in such a snappish mood.”
Nahri sighed, pressing closer to him despite herself. His mouth had moved lower, his beard tickling her collar. “I am not snappish …”
There was a polite cough from behind the tree, followed by a squeaked “Emir?”
Muntadhir removed neither his hands nor his lips. “Yes?”
“Your father wishes to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”
Nahri stilled, the mention of Ghassan making her go cold.
Muntadhir sighed. “Of course it is.” He pulled away to meet her gaze. “Have dinner with me tonight?” he asked. “I will order your strange flower tea and you can insult my shamelessness to your heart’s content.”
Nahri had little desire to dine with him but admittedly wouldn’t mind continuing what they’d just started. She had been under a great deal of stress lately, and she often got more sleep the nights she spent in Muntadhir’s room; people usually had to be actively dying for a servant to muster up the courage to interrupt the emir and his wife there.
Besides which, the flicker of hope in his eyes was pulling on the one shred of tenderness left in her heart; for all his flaws—and there were a great number—her husband did not lack in charm. “I’ll try,” she said, biting back a smile.
He grinned back, looking genuinely pleased. “Excellent.” He untangled his limbs from hers.
Nahri hastily straightened her tunic; she was not going back to the infirmary looking like … well, like she had just been doing what she had been doing. “Good luck with whatever your father wants.”
Muntadhir rolled his eyes. “I am sure it is nothing.” He touched his heart. “In peace.”
She watched him go, taking a minute to enjoy the fresh air and the trill of birdsong. It was a beautiful day, and her gaze drifted lazily over to the herb garden.
It landed on a shafit man scurrying through the bushes.
Nahri frowned, watching as the fellow hurried past a patch of sage to stop in front of a willow tree. He wiped his brow, looking nervously over his shoulders.
Odd. While there were some shafit among the gardeners, none were allowed to touch the Nahid plants, nor was this particular man familiar. He took a pair of shears from his belt and opened them, as though he meant to cut away one of the branches.
Nahri was on her feet in an instant, her silk slippers and a lifetime of cat burglary disguising the sound of her steps. The man didn’t even look up until she was nearly on top of him.
“What do you think you’re doing to my tree?” she demanded.
The shafit man jumped up, whirling around so fast that his cap tumbled off. His human-hued hazel eyes went wide with horror.
“Banu Nahida!” he gasped. “I … forgive me,” he begged, bringing his hands together. “I was just—”
“Hacking at my willow? Yes, I see that.” She touched the maimed branch, and a sprinkling of new bark spread beneath her fingers. Nahri had a bit of a talent for botany herself, though she hadn’t yet attempted to develop it further, much to Nisreen’s chagrin. “Do you know what would happen if someone else had caught …” She trailed off, the sight of the man’s bare scalp stealing her attention. It was disfigured, his hair long around his temples, but prickly and patched at the top as if recovering from a rushed shave. The flesh there was mottled purple and slightly swollen, surrounding an oddly flat patch in the size and shape of a coin. A half-moon of scar tissue edged the patch—it had been stitched, and skillfully so.
Overwhelmed by curiosity, Nahri reached out and lightly touched the swollen flesh. It was soft—too soft. She let her Nahid senses expand, confirming what seemed impossible.
A small section of the man’s skull had been removed beneath the skin.
She gasped. It was healing; she could sense the spark of new bone growth, but even so … She dropped her hand. “Did someone do this to you?”
The man looked petrified. “I had an accident.”
“An accident that neatly bored a hole through your skull and then stitched it shut?” Nahri knelt beside him. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she assured him. “I just want to know what happened—and
