The Forbidden Wish (12 page)

“What are you doing?” hisses Aladdin.

“I don't know!” I stare at him helplessly. “I panicked!”

Rolling his eyes, Aladdin turns to the man. “Shut it, will you?”

“I've never been so—mph!”

Aladdin clasps a hand over his mouth, holding him in a headlock. “Easy, old man. Gods, we're not going to murder you.”

I let go of him and let out a long breath. The man ceases struggling and glares hard at me.

“All right, listen up,” Aladdin says. “See, this is all part of a game.
A sort of treasure hunt. It was all Prince Darian's idea, I might add. Between you and me”—he drops his voice to a whisper—“I think he's a bit insane. But if you want to complain, talk to him. I'm sure he'd be reasonable about it. I'm going to let you go now. Don't yell, or I might have to gag you and let you sit here till dark.”

Slowly he releases the man, who whirls angrily but doesn't shout out. He straightens his hat and coat, looking from Aladdin to me.

“I never . . . Young people these days!”

“Yes, we're a rotten lot,” agrees Aladdin. “Go on, now. If you run into Darian, be sure to give him a piece of your mind.”

The man hurries off with many backward glances, his face still red. Then Aladdin lets out a heavy sigh and rubs his face.

“I got the pipe,” I say, holding it up.

He stares for a minute, blinking, and then bursts into laughter. A few curious deer stick their heads through the shrubs to see what the racket is. Aladdin doubles over, laughing loud enough to startle birds from the trees overhead, and after a moment, I start laughing too. I haven't laughed this hard in a long, long while, and it feels wonderful. We sit on the grass and laugh until our faces are red and we're out of breath.

“You are the
worst
thief I have ever seen,” declares Aladdin.

“I don't know what you're talking about. I got it, didn't I?”

“My grandmother could pick pockets better than that! Though that's not quite fair; my grandmother was the best pickpocket in Parthenia. She taught me all her tricks. Drove my mother crazy.”

Taking advantage of the private spot, I shift into a tiger and roll on the grass, groaning with pleasure. The few deer remaining panic at the sight and dash off.

Aladdin lies beside me, his hands flung wide, eyes closed, and face turned to the sun. The sky is brilliantly blue, and the grass
lush and deep. I stretch out, relishing the cool dirt under my claws. Then, with a sigh, I shift back into a girl and sink into the grass.

“If you had a wish to spend,” says Aladdin suddenly, “what would you do with it?”

My eyes are half shut, my thoughts slow and lazy. “Spend a day in Ashori, eating grapes.” I don't add that I'd also be free, without a lamp or a master in sight, staying as long as I pleased and answering to no one.

He rolls on his side, head propped on his hand. “Really?
Grapes?
You could wish for anything—but you'd wish for
grapes
?”

“I take it you've never had an Ashori grape.” I shut my eyes and imagine it. “They're sweet and plump and perfectly crisp . . . the last Lampholder used to order them by the shipload.”

“Huh.” He pulls up a small white daisy that's sprouted in the grass. “I must have one of these grapes.”

I open one eye. “Is that a wish?”

He makes a face and tosses the flower at me. It lands on my cheek, and I pick it up and twirl it between my fingers. I could lie out here all day, not moving an inch, feeling the sun above and the grass below. With a contented sigh, I stretch my arms wide, raking the grass with my fingers—and find myself brushing Aladdin's hand with my own. I pull it away quickly, my cheeks warming. He laughs a little.

“Sometimes,” he says, “I forget you're supposed to be four thousand years old. You act as shy as a girl of sixteen.”

“I do not!” I sit up and glare at him.

He grins and shrugs, sliding his hands under his head. There are bits of grass stuck in his hair, and after a moment's hesitation, I reach over and flick them away.

Aladdin watches me silently, his throat bobbing as he swallows. I drop my gaze.

He pulls out the pipe I stole and sticks it between his teeth.

“What do you think?” he asks around the stem. “Do I look noble?”

I snatch it away, and his teeth close with a clack. “Don't you know that will kill you?”

He stares at me a minute, a mischievous light coming into his eyes. Then suddenly he lunges at me.

“Give it back!”

“It's mine! I stole it!”

“I saved you from getting flogged!”

He makes a grab for the pipe, and I roll aside, holding it out of his reach. With a wicked laugh, he tickles my side, and I drop the pipe as I hasten to shove him away.

Aladdin picks up the pipe and brandishes it triumphantly, while I lie in the grass and laugh.

“Who knew jinn were ticklish?” He sits cross-legged and taps the pipe on his knee. “I should tell Caspida. I've discovered the jinn's greatest weakness! Sure, they hate iron, but wave a feather on a stick and they'll run to the other side of the world!”

“That was a dishonorable move, thief.”

“As if I had any honor to begin to with.”

I lift my eyes skyward and start to lean away, but then Aladdin reaches out and grabs my wrist, stopping me. I look up at him questioningly, and freeze.

His eyes are staring deep into mine, suddenly curious and thoughtful, and a strange wind rustles through my body. I go very still, not even breathing, as his hand lifts and he runs his finger so
gently, so softly, along my jaw. He gazes at me as if seeing me for the first time, his lips just slightly parted.

For a moment I'm certain he'll say something he will regret, and apprehension wells up in me.

But then he draws back with a husky laugh, his eyes slipping away.
“Grapes.”

T
HE TWO WEEKS PASS SL
OWLY,
until at last we arrive at the day of Fahradan. Darkness falls, but the festival will not commence until midnight. After a stiff, long dinner with the nobles—Darian failing to make an appearance—Aladdin returns to our rooms to find a new set of clothes has been laid out. They are resplendent, showy garments, scarlet and gold, complete with cape and feathered turban. Aladdin regards them with dismay, then goes to his room to put them on.

When he emerges, dressed in all but the turban, I catch my breath, caught off guard. The tight-fitting cut of the long coat accentuates his taut abdomen and broad shoulders and is drawn in around his waist with a thin black belt. The scarlet fabric with its exquisite gold-and-black embroidery brings out the copper streaks in his eyes, and the high collar stops halfway up his neck, brushing his stubbled jaw when he looks down to survey himself. The
cloak, which is scarlet on the outside and lined with pale gold fabric, crosses from his left shoulder to drape over his right arm.

“Well?” he says gruffly. “How do I look?”

“Um.” I swallow hastily and look away. “You might catch the princess's eye, I suppose.”

“I itch all over. If I'd known being a prince mostly consisted of wearing damned uncomfortable costumes like this, I'd never have made that wish.”

“You itch because you need to shave,” I note. “Sit.”

I retrieve a shaving knife and creamy goats'-milk soap and throw a wool blanket over Aladdin to spare his fine clothes. He grumbles but goes along as I order him to sit on a stool in the grass, in the light of a strong lantern.

Aladdin tilts his head back and swallows as I soap my hands and then run them over his cheeks and jaw, leaving a thick lather.

“Don't move,” I say softly. His eyes follow mine as I press the edge of the blade to his cheek and gently scrape away the short, coarse hairs. His irises are golden in the candlelight, and his long, dark lashes almost make him look as if he's lined his eyes with kohl.

“Where did you learn to do this?” he asks.

“Don't talk unless you want your throat cut,” I warn. “I've been around a long time. You tend to pick things up.”

“How long have you been in the lamp?”

“What did I say about talking?” I sigh.

“Well? How long?”

I bend over him, running the blade along the angle of his jaw. “For as long as I have been jinn.”

“Who put you there?”

“Why do you care?”

His brow wrinkles slightly. “Because it seems wrong to keep someone locked away, just sitting around waiting to make other people's lives better.”

“Who said I made their lives better? Will you
please
keep still?”

“Was it Nardukha?”

I pause, the blade resting on his cheek. “Where'd you get that idea?”

“Well, isn't he the king of the jinn or something?”

I grip his chin lightly with my free hand, forcing him to keep his mouth shut while I scrape beneath his nose. Gods, how did he come by such perfect lips? And why do I feel warm as a fire? “He is. And yes, he's the only jinni left with enough power to bind us to lamps and bottles and other such prisons.”

“Like the jinn charmers?”

I pull the blade away sharply. “What do you know of the jinn charmers?”

“Just that they play sometimes in the streets, or outside the city walls. People say their music can charm jinn right into bottles.”

“Kind of like that,” I reply. “But Nardukha's magic is much stronger. It not only binds us to our vessels, it strips us of our magic and compels us to grant wishes.”

“Why does he do it?” he asks, when I pause to wipe the blade clean.

“Because he can,” I reply flatly. “It's one of the ways he keeps us under control. If we disobey or threaten him, he enslaves us to humans until we repent and beg for his forgiveness. Even then, he might not relent.”

“Which did you do? Threaten him or disobey him?”

I scrape beneath his chin, then down the skin of his neck, taking particular care around his delicate veins, before replying. “Both.”

“That's all you're going to say, isn't it? No matter how much I ask?”

With a tight smile, I shave the last of his stubble away. “You know me so well already.”

I drop a plush cloth over his head and tell him to clean himself up.

He stands wiping his face while I flit about the room, lighting lamps and opening the silk curtains to let in the cool night air. I can still feel his neck's pulse in my fingertips. What would Nardukha do if he saw me running my fingers along Aladdin's jaw? I shudder to think of the answer.

“We should go soon,” I say. “The dancing will begin in an hour.”

“Dancing. Wonderful.” His tone is deflated.

With a sigh, I shut the glass door on the last lamp. The flame burns steady and bright, casting flickering lace patterns through the metalwork encasing it. “Don't tell me you don't know how.”

“Oh, sure, because I've had so
much
time for dancing, in between not starving to death and not getting thrown in prison.” He tosses his facecloth aside. “I know plenty of dances. My favorite is called Not Getting Your Legs Broken for Stealing Figs from That Baker on Pearl Lane.”

“That's sure to charm the princess right into a wedding pact.”

Grinning mischievously, he crosses to me and takes my hands, trying to draw me onto the open floor. “
You
can teach me how to dance.”

“No.” I wrench my hands away and turn my back to him.

“I thought the whole point of Fahradan was that everyone
has
to dance.”

“Wish for it, and I could make you such a dancer you would charm the fish out of the sea.”

“
Zahra.
Are you angry with me?” He walks around to face me. “Is this because I beat you at dice the other day?” His eyes going wide, he drops to his knees in front of me. “I apologize from the bottom of my soul, O great and powerful jinni of the lamp.”

“You didn't beat me. I let you win.”

“Zahra.” Aladdin shuffles closer and takes my hands. “I
need
your help.”

With a soft groan, I pull my hands from his and throw them in the air. “Fine! Just stop groveling! You're supposed to be a
prince
, you idiot. Anyway, you'll get your fancy clothes dirty.”

His face blossoming with delight, he lifts me by my waist and spins me around before I have a chance to dodge him.

“Put me down!” I shift, and his hands close around white smoke. I reappear behind him, barefoot on the smooth tiled courtyard, dressed in a Fahradan gown of red and gold to match Aladdin's coat, a turquoise comb set in my hair that drops a tear-shaped ruby over the center of my forehead.

Aladdin turns and stops dead with a soft “Oh.” His eyes scan me from head to toe, his mouth slightly ajar.

I wave a hand. “Come here.”

He hurries to me, stopping a pace away. The lamps that hang from the pillars around us cast delicate patterns of light across the white walls and floor, painting glitter like trapped stars. But for the clicking song of a nightjar in the trees behind us and babble of the wall fountain, all is silent.

“The dance of Fahradan,” I begin, “is a dance of paradoxes. It is restraint versus passion. It is desire versus purity. It is push versus pull.”

I lift my arms, which are bare of jewelry. “This dance is born in the wrists. They are the points upon which the rest of the body hangs.”

Demonstrating, I begin rotating my hands, shifting foot to foot, my hips swaying to unheard music. My gown whispers against the tile, my bare feet lifting only at the heel.

“It is one of the few dances shared by a man and a woman,” I go on. “Step closer.”

He does, swallowing, and he holds up his wrists at shoulder height. Without pausing, I step to him and press the inside of my left wrist lightly against his right.

“Nothing touches,” I whisper in his ear, “except the wrists.”

I can feel his pulse beating through the delicate skin of his wrist, warm and strong and vibrant. The power of his energy pours through me like a rush of wind.

“When you dance with the princess, you must resist her and at the same time let her entice you. You are stone, and she is water. You are the earth, and she is the sky.” With a swift spin, I reverse directions, locking my other wrist to his. “See? Push and pull. Restraint and passion.”

He nods and licks his lips, his eyes locked with mine.

“Now,” I say, “when I step forward, you step back. When I turn to the left, you go right. We are mirrors of one another, do you see? But always we come back, wrist to wrist. Imagine an invisible ribbon tying us together, always bringing us back to where we began. This dance, like time, is a circle.”

He begins to dance with me, mirroring my movements, until we are circling one another, turning, twirling, and always returning to the starting position, opposite wrists pressed together, vein to vein, pulse to pulse.

“The woman leads, and the man resists. The woman invites, and the man follows. Your part is easy—let Caspida lead. Mirror her movements, and you will fall into synthesis. Your bodies will
read each other's heartbeats through the wrists, and your pulses will become one rhythm.”

“I think I understand,” he says hoarsely.

“Then prove it.”

I twirl away, then back to him, staying on my toes, my hips always lightly rotating. He reacts clumsily at first, but soon the awkwardness fades away and he begins matching my movements, reflecting them in reverse. We dance like this, wrist to wrist, twirl and turn, step for step, for several more minutes. He holds my gaze, our eyes connecting at every turn, anticipating one another's movements.

His pulse is so strong against my wrist that it echoes through me, almost like a heartbeat of my own. My skin warms; my breath catches in my throat. I know how closely I dance along the line of destruction, but I cannot pull myself away. He is intoxicating, his force of life an addiction I cannot refuse. I have not felt this alive in centuries, not since you, Habiba, when you taught me the dance of Fahradan. Ours was a dance of giddy laughter, a dance of friends, sisters, a dance of life and youth and hope.

But this dance is different.

It is not I but he who entices, reversing the ancient roles of the dance. And I resist because I must, because if I don't, because if I give in to the all-too-human desires racing through me—then it is Aladdin who will pay the terrible price.

“Stop.” I drop my wrists and step away, and he does the same, still caught up in mirroring me. Except that he is breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with exertion, his eyes filled with a strange, wondrous, curious look as he stares at me. He moves closer, his eyes fixed on mine, and despite myself I cannot look away.

Aladdin raises a tentative hand to my cheek. Immobile with
both dread and longing, I can only stare up at him, flushing with warmth when he gently runs his hand down the side of my face. I shut my eyes, leaning into his touch just slightly, my stomach leaping. Longing. Wishing.

I feel him leaning closer, bending down, his face drawing nearer to mine.

“No,” I whisper. “I can't.”

“Zahra—”

I pull away, averting my gaze. “You are ready for her.”

With that, I turn and run back into the palace.