His mother barreled into the room, and he hadn't even opened his mouth to greet her when he got a ringing slap across the face. Literally, his ears were ringing from the force of it, and he could taste blood in his mouth where his teeth had cut his cheek. "Mother?"
"Do not look at me likeI'mthe one causing problems here."
"Mother, I swear to you, I do not understand what is going on. I went to the healers as His Majesty requested, and the next thing I knew I was sent here and ordered to rest for three days. That is all I know, all that's happened. What have I done wrong?"
"Wrong?" she asked, voice not quite shrill, but very nearly. "You whined to that healer so much that we are under investigation! What did you say?"
"Nothing!"
She slapped him again, the other cheek this time, provoking tears from the stinging force of it. "That is a bald-faced lie, and I will not tolerate such disrespect."
"Mother, I swear to you, I went only to see about the head wound, and only because His Majesty insisted, and I would not be so rude as to ignore his requests. All I did was answer questions, and none of them were about you and Father."
"Repeat them all to me."
Nadir did so, or at least tried to; he'd been so tired, and the whole situation so bemusing, that mostly it was a blur. He concluded with relating his nap, followed by his evening in the garden. Predictably, it helped nothing, but if he'd withheld the information or waited for her to ask, her anger would have been even worse.
"You lazy good-for-nothing, letting them slander us while you sit about napping and drinking and jotting down your stupid nonsense."
"It's not stupid—"
He regretted the words the moment they slipped out, and swallowed in the aftermath of a third slap. His face hurt, but he'd learned a long time ago not to complain or beg for mercy. Instead, he simply let her rant, arms waving and lashing about, eyes filled with the sort of fury and contempt she saved for convicts and her only son.
All the relief brought by his wonderful evening was shattered by her raging, and the final slap she added for good measure before scooping up his 'pathetic waste of time and paper' and storming off.
Nadir sat on his bed and tried not to cry more than he already had. What in the world was going on? Why were they investigating his parents? Why did she think he was responsible? Was it really the end of the world that he'd been ordered to rest for three days? Didn't parents want the best for their children, but also their health and happiness?
Why did his parents hate him so much?
Sadly, he was more distressed about the poetry. He'd been so pleased with some of it, even the silly one about Shafiq he'd been trying to work into something good and not simply maudlin and mushy and embarrassing.
Gone, now. It wasn't the first time his mother had confiscated his 'drivel' in retaliation for disobediences he never understood. Sometimes he was able to retrieve bits of it, hide them away until he could recopy and destroy the originals, so she'd never realize what he'd done. Most of the time, though, it was thrown into the fire or taken away by servants to be disposed of before he had the chance.
Why did his parents dislike him so much? What had he done so wrong?
Sniffling, Nadir rose and took his tonics for the morning, then gathered up what he needed and headed down the hall to the baths. Some of his misery eased then, as he realized that for once he could linger in the hot water as long as he liked. After cleaning thoroughly, he did precisely that, sliding into the steaming water and sighing at the relief that was immediately brought.
Oh, to be able to do this every single day, or at least most days, like the rest of the world. How much better would he feel each day if he had this one small thing? He was going to stay here until he melted.
Or until a discreet cough forced him to open his eyes—which widened further as he took in the mark on the man's livery that designated him as a personal servant of the king. Nadir sat up. "Uh. My apologies. If I had known someone would be coming to see me, I would have been waiting in my room properly."
The man smiled. "No need for that, my lord. The visit was not scheduled. His Majesty would like to see you at your leisure.He is available for the next couple of hours in the sunset room, or you can see him after dinner."
"No, I'll come as soon as I'm dressed. I apologize for causing him any delay."
"You've caused no problems, but I will convey your words." The man bowed and departed, moving with enviable grace.
Once he was relatively certain the man had left the hall, Nadir climbed out of the water, yanked on his robe, and gathered his bathing supplies before all but running back to his room.
His clothes were still in their trunk; he hadn't been in a hurry to hang them properly because who was going to care if they were a bit wrinkled, the flowers? That would teach him.
He pored frantically over the contents, desperately seeking something suitable for a surprise audience with the king. Why did His Majesty want to see him again? Was this related to his mother?
Mercy of the gods, all he'd done was make a clumsy mistake. How had one tiny moment sent his life into a spiral?
He finally settled on snug fitting white pants and black ankle boots, and a long, side-split, deep red tunic trimmed in gold, with black sleeves that attached by way of gold frogs shaped like lilies. He bound his hair into a braid and wound it into a knot at the back of his head, secured with a hairpin that also had a lily. Otherwise, his jewelry was plain, simple gold; he had none of the ornate jewelry someone of his station should have. His parents gave plenty of it to his sisters, their beloved daughters, but everything he had was perfunctory and second-hand or, he suspected, bought for cheap at pawn shops and the lower-end stalls in the market.
If there was one thing he wished he could do regarding his appearance, it would be to cut all his hair off. He hated it—the weight, the hours that must be spent maintaining it, how it was always in his way, on his neck, in his face, hot and heavy and annoying. But his parents said his hair was, essentially, a selling point, and so he was forbidden to cut it.
