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Ali paused in the middle of the street, looking around at some of the grand houses of the Daeva Quarter. None of them looked familiar. He cursed his own ignorance of this part of the city as he doubled back the way he came, wondering where he had missed a turn.
A light rain was falling, and the streets were mostly deserted. Djinn were usually wary of wet weather and rarely lingered in the rain. The only people who crossed Ali’s path were hurrying to their destinations, heads under hoods or more magical coverings, eyes cast down to avoid stepping in the puddles forming underfoot. Few seemed to notice him. Both the weather and the quiet surroundings agreed with Ali. The rain calmed and centered him, lingering reassuringly on his cool skin. He pushed up his sleeves to feel the misty air more fully, letting the moisture swirl gently around his limbs. He looked around, checking he was alone before tipping his head back briefly to catch a few extra raindrops on his face. He knew anyone who saw him doing it would be reminded of his strangeness, and for this reason he was grateful to be mostly alone. Even on a dry day, he could not walk far in Daevabad without attracting stares at his yellow eyes and off-colored skin.
Ali stopped at an intersection of two narrow lanes, trying to get his bearings. He usually considered himself a good navigator, but the Daeva Quarter had long been a blindspot in his knowledge of his own city. He usually only entered it as a guest, accompanying someone more familiar with its ancient, winding streets. Still, he had thought he would be able to find his way to Muntadhir’s house with little trouble. Clearly, he had been overconfident. Looking between the two branching paths in front of him, Ali took the rightmost one and picked up his pace, hoping he could avoid being late for whatever conversation his brother had invited him to.
He saw his brother nearly every day, but usually they met in the halls of the palace or at the homes of nobles trying to broker deals under their still tenuous system of government. When they met alone, Muntadhir would drop by Ali’s palace office or his small apartment in the Geziri Quarter, inviting himself in with the assuredness of the king he’d been born to be. Ali still envied his confidence and grace, which somehow endeared him to men and women of dozens of competing powerful families. Sometimes he half wondered if his brother wouldn’t run a better government as king than the bickering and aggrieved representatives of Daevabad’s many tribes were running at the moment. Ali could imagine another world where King Muntadhir ruled with Queen Nahri at his side, the pair of them finally uniting the Qahtanis and Nahids. Muntadhir bringing his charm and political savvy to bear on the city’s problems, and Nahri wielding the goodwill of her people and the magical power of her ancestors. He could credit his father for recognizing the power of the vision: it was certainly easier to imagine than the peaceful coalition Ali had spent the last five years slowly trying to build. Still, he was hopeful about the direction politics had taken in the city, however slowly and painfully progress was being made.
Today, though, Ali’s main hope was to avoid getting lost. Ali had only been to the home his brother shared with Jamshid twice before, and both times only briefly. Ali suspected that both men would rather keep their lives there away from as many eyes as possible, a decision he felt bound to respect. Still, if Muntadhir invited him to his home a little more often then maybe Ali would be able to find his way there without so many wrong turns. As it was, it took another half hour of wandering and backtracking before he reached the street he recognized. It was lined on each side by stone walls that rose just above his head, punctuated by doorways of richly carved wood leading to the homes and courtyards behind. Relieved to have finally found his way, Ali found the right door and paused to straighten his turban before letting himself in.
The door led into a small garden flourishing with tulips and crocuses and shaded by apricot trees. Behind them was a small but elegant house of soft white stone. Pointed arches decorated by geometric carvings outlined windows on the home’s two floors. Ali smiled at it. Compared to his own small quarters, Muntadhir’s home was a mansion. But compared to the palace it was quiet and cozy, an oasis of privacy and calm. It made him happy to think of his brother returning here each day, away from the scheming of ministers and constant demands of the court.
“Zaydi! I was beginning to worry.”
Ali turned to see his brother emerging from the house, a broad grin across his face.
“Dhiru, peace be upon you,” replied Ali. He stepped forward and let his brother pull him into a loose hug. “I’m sorry I’m late, I got lost.”
“The man who commands the currents to travel the world in an instant, lost in the streets of his own city,” Muntadhir tutted, shaking his head. “I guess we’re lucky I didn’t need to send out soldiers to search the streets for you, it might have damaged your fearsome reputation.”
“I would have found my way eventually,” Ali replied, feeling a bit of warmth reach his cheeks. “Thank you for inviting me.”
Muntadhir waved his hand dismissively. “You don’t need to be invited. You are always welcome here, Zaydi. You’re family.” He smiled at Ali. “So long as you can you can find your way, that is.”
He led the way back into the house to a sitting area where a coffee pot was waiting on a small table. Ali lowered himself onto a cushion and gratefully accepted a warm cup. The wet weather might not have affected him as it once did, but he still preferred warm temperatures over the cold winds they’d been experiencing lately.
“How is Jamshid?” he asked his brother. “Is he here today?”
Muntadhir shook his head. “He’s busy at the hospital, he’s usually not home until late. You’ll have to ask your Banu Nahida to hear about how he’s doing, she probably sees more of him than me.”
Ali nodded and sipped his coffee, feeling a twinge of sadness. Muntadhir had grown less protective about his relationship with the Baga Nahid over the past few years, but he still had yet to speak about it with Ali directly. It made him regretful that he could not be a confidant to his brother in such things, even after so much time together, so much trust carefully built between them.
“How is my ex-wife?” Muntadhir asked, smirking slightly. “Longing after me each night?”
Ali nearly choked on his coffee, coughing loudly as his face flushed deeply. “I…She– I mean, she…” he cleared his throat, trying to recover his composure. “I mean, she’s busy. Even busier than Jamshid.” He coughed a few more times. “With her work at the hospital and attending court when we need her. I’m surprised she finds time to sleep.”
Muntadhir chuckled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “It reassures me I can still tongue tie you from time to time, akhi.” He poured Ali a glass of water from a nearby pitcher and handed it to him. Ali took it and gulped it down, suppressing a few more coughs threatening to rise in his throat. “But that’s actually why I wanted to talk to you.”
“What do you mean?” Ali asked, confused. His eyes were watering slightly, and he took a long drink from his glass.
Muntadhir leaned back against the cushions behind him, his sole eye looking over Ali appraisingly. Ali suddenly felt nervous. Even after all that had happened, Muntadhir had never lost his ability to make Ali feel like the naive little brother. And there was something about Muntadhir’s gaze that reminded him of sitting before his father, feeling as though Ghassan could read his thoughts. Ali found his mind racing back over recent conversations, wondering what Muntadhir might be preparing to talk to him about. Had his poor timing angered one of their supporters at the court? Had he managed to offend another Daeva nobleman with his stumbling Divasti? Had his latest tax proposal gone too far and upset the balance they were trying to create between the tribes? He found himself tensing as Muntadhir opened his mouth to speak.
“Why haven’t you married Nahri yet?”
Of all the questions he expected his brother to ask, this was not one of them.
“Excuse me?” Ali said, unsure how to reply.
Muntadhir rolled his eye. “The most blessed Banu Nahida, daughter of Anahid, keeper of the Seal of Suleiman. My ex-wife. Why haven’t you married her yet? Or at least asked her.”
Ali stuttered, searching for an answer. He’d been ready to jump into a spirited defense of his political positions, not to speak to his always suave brother about his feelings for women. Or rather, one woman in particular. “Nahri is… I mean, she is busy with her responsibilities. Everything… all that’s changed, rebuilding everything. The new government. Her hospital. I’m sure she doesn’t want to be distracted from that by an engagement,” Ali defended. Muntadhir raised an eyebrow, and he stumbled on. “Anyway, I don’t think there’s any need to rush into something like that. Such an important…decision.”
Muntadhir snorted. “You know last week marked the fifth year since our divorce?” He reached across the table to pluck a few dates from a bowl. “I hardly think you’d be rushing anything if you asked her now.”
“She’s been busy. I’ve been busy,” Ali protested, seeing Muntadhir open his mouth to make some comment. “You said yourself how long Jamshid spends each day running the hospital. Nahri does that too. And she spends time building consensus for new legislation among the Daevas, she’s studying human healing techniques, trying to learn the magic to free slaves from their vessels….”
“And none of that would stop her from getting married, if you’d asked her to.” Muntadhir replied simply. “There are many busy people in Daevabad, Zaydi. Subha works at the hospital and has her family. Most of the ministers you constantly run off their feet with administrative work have wives and children. Even our father found time amongst all his plots to marry twice.” Muntadhir looked seriously at Ali. “Nahri may be one of the hardest working people I have had the trouble of meeting. The Creator knows how often she reminds me herself of all the work she’s juggling and how lazy I am by comparison. But we both know that’s not the reason you haven’t asked her to marry you.”
Ali swallowed, looking down at his hands. His brother was right, of course. The stress and workload of the past few years had taken a toll on all of them, but that wasn’t the true thing blocking him from acting on his affections for Nahri. In the years since they had retaken the city from Manizheh they had been together almost constantly, discussing plans for the government, sharing books and documents they found on the city’s history, collaborating on plans for expanding her hospital and rebuilding the shafit district and the Citadel. Yet apart from that one night in Ta Ntry, he had never gone beyond friendly touches and the occasional hug with her. Despite their long conversations and deep friendship, Ali had pushed away all opportunities for something more intimate between them. Even he could recognize Nahri’s gentle hints that there could be more, her attempts to bring it up in conversation, yet every time it came up he found some excuse to change the subject or a reason to escape, some new legislative project that needed his attention or some demanding bureaucrat whose complaints could distract him from the thing he’d rather not think about. Just thinking of it now made him anxious, twisting the fabric of his dishdashah through his restless fingers.
“Zaydi.”
Ali looked up. Muntadhir’s gaze had turned gentle and reassuring. In this, it was nothing like their father’s. He reached over and placed a hand on Ali’s shoulder.
“You know I think the world of you, yes? You saved my life. You saved our world. I only want you to be happy, this is why I’m asking you this.” Muntadhir’s voice was steady and earnest, making tears well behind Ali’s eyes. How could I ever have been angry with him? Ali wondered. How could I have once held a knife to his throat? Any conflict between them had been buried long ago, destroyed in all they’d been through together. Ali took a breath and tried to answer his brother’s question.
“I haven’t asked her because I’m not sure…I don’t know if…” Ali paused, almost unable to voice his fears. “If…Nahri doesn’t want me.” Ali stared down at his coffee cup, too embarrassed to meet his brother’s eye. His heart had sunk the moment Muntadhir had begun to press this topic, realizing that there were few ways to escape the discussion. Now he dreaded whatever his brother might say.
There was an agonizing pause before Muntadhir spoke. “Is that really what you’ve been afraid of?” His voice was filled with mirth, a laugh suppressed beneath the words.
“Dhiru, please don’t laugh,” Ali said, still looking away. The water in the nearby pitcher trembled slightly as he tried to take hold of his emotions.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Muntadhir cleared his throat, clearly trying to be serious. “But even you can’t be that oblivious.”
“Oblivious to what?” asked Ali.
“To how in love she is with you!” said Muntadhir, exasperated. “Ali, who else do you think she’s interested in? Any man in the city would happily make a marriage contract with her, but she hasn’t shown a single shred of interest in any of them. Meanwhile, she spends every evening in her office with you, going over account books and dusty scrolls you bring her. Looking at you like you brought her precious gemstones and silks rather than a heap of moldy paper.”
“Those scrolls are worth far more than gemstones,” Ali said defensively.
“This is exactly what I mean!” said Muntadhir, even more emphatically. “You two are perfect for each other, any fool could see that. Not to mention the fact that you kissed her already, long before we were divorced, I may add. Surely you can’t think she isn’t interested in you.”
“Yes, but that was before!” Ali said desperately. Agitated, he jumped to his feet, trying to find a way to get rid of his nervous energy.
“What do you mean ‘before’?” Muntadhir looked at him, confused.
“Before the marid! Before I gave up my fire magic! Before I had crocodile skin in my shoulder!” The difference between that before and now was so obvious to him that he couldn’t believe Muntadhir didn’t understand it. Ali began to pace. The rain was drumming hard against the window now and the glasses on the table began to rattle. He pressed his eyes tightly shut, trying to calm himself, not wanting to ruin the delicate silks of his brother’s living space by exploding a pitcher on them. “I kissed her before I had eyes like some ancient demon from a story told to scare children. When I was still a djinn, not some creature that those around me fear more than they respect.” His voice broke. He opened his eyes and collapsed back onto the cushion beside his brother. “I can’t ask her to marry me, I can’t. She can love my mind, but I can’t ask her to pretend to love more than that. If she agreed to a marriage, it would only be because she pitied me.” Ali drew a shuddering breath. The glasses had stopped rattling, but the rain was coming down harder than ever. “She should marry someone worthy of her. From a Daeva family, maybe. Or one of the shafit doctors she’s training. Many of them are very handsome, kind. Devoted to their work. She would be happy with that.” He looked at his hands, miserable.
“Ali, look at me,” said Muntadhir. Ali raised his gaze to his brother’s face. There was sadness there, but also something firmer and more determined. “Do you mean to tell me that my little brother has been avoiding marrying the woman who loves him for five years because he’s worried he’s ugly? Is that what this is?”
“It’s not just about being ugly, Dhiru,” said Ali, irritated. “Not everyone can be handsome, but that’s not the point. It’s about being unnatural. I’m no longer a djinn. For Nahri to marry me would be like…like if she married a dog. An animal, not a person. I couldn’t do that to her, even if she asked me. I would…despoil her.” Forcing the truth from between his teeth felt like prodding his own wound, but Ali could not deny it. The unspoken reality of what he had become since his deal with the marids was something he wished he could forget, but every mirror was a reminder of what he was. Not djinn, not shafit, not human. Something other. Something monstrous.
“Alizayd al-Qahtani, I will not hear you compare yourself to a dog.” Muntadhir gripped his shoulders and stared him down. “You are a hero to all of us, you are the fiercest warrior in Daevabad, you are the brightest scholar of our court, the most sincerely devout man I have ever met, and you are my brother, my blood. Whether you are djinn or not, it doesn’t matter, you are a person, Zaydi. You are my family. There is absolutely nothing unnatural about you, and I will not hear you saying or thinking otherwise.”
“Muntadhir, even you recoiled from me when you first saw me,” said Ali softly. “You thought I was a demon wearing your brother’s face. You thought I was some horrible new monster Manizheh had conjured to torture you.”
Muntadhir gave him a heartbroken look. “I was half dead, akhi, I hardly knew what I was seeing anymore. You know I don’t think that’s what you are.”
“But maybe that is what I am,” said Ali, his voice catching. “Maybe all the people I meet who look at me with terror, the people who pull their children away when I appear, maybe they see the truth. That I am a monster. A monster to this world, anyway.”
Muntadhir shook his head, but for a moment he was silent. Ali looked again to the window. Rain was pouring down the glass in sheets, the argument unleashing a storm Ali had quietly been holding back. He had never spoken to anyone about his fears about his own marid nature, his despair of how it separated him from the people he had always loved and lived amongst. The Geziri men who once welcomed him as their own who now eyed him warily when they met. The Daevas who whispered behind his back that he had sold his soul for marid magic. The Ayaanle who made him know the resentment they felt over the rumors and disdain he had brought upon their tribe. The fear he saw in the eyes of every new person he met, no matter how they tried to hide it.
Ali breathed shakily. Control yourself, he scolded himself. He balled his hands into fists, then spread his fingers again, trying to release the tension in his body. He felt the rain rushing down outside and let it continue.
When Muntadhir spoke again, his voice was even. “You have always defended the shafit,” he said. Ali glanced at him. His brother was looking at the window, contemplative. “You, more than any of us, always insisted that they were equals, that they were not different from pureblooded djinn.”
“Of course,” said Ali, not sure where this was going.
“You were willing to risk your life, all of our lives, to give them justice. You defied our father, because you knew in your heart that they deserved to be treated the same as the rest of us. So much of what you’ve fought for these past five years has been to give them a voice, give them respect, make a future where they are treated fairly.”
“Yes, I will always want that, Dhiru, but I don’t understand what this has to do…”
“What if Nahri had come to you and told you she didn’t deserve love, didn’t deserve happiness because she was dirt-blooded and unnatural? What if she compared herself to an animal and told you she worried she would ‘despoil’ you by touching you?” There was a sudden ferocity in Muntadhir’s voice that surprised Ali, a ferocity that seemed to intensify as he turned back to look at Ali. “Or what if I was shafit? Or if I was human? If I had been transformed by some magic into human form and I came to you and told you that I saw myself as dirty, as an abomination? As no longer a person? Would you agree with me? Would you think I was reasonable?”
“Of course not, I would never think such a thing,” Ali said, taken aback by the suggestion.
“Then why, in God’s name, Ali, do you think I would think this way of you? Why would you think this way of yourself? Can’t you see what I am trying to tell you?” Muntadhir took Ali’s hand and gripped it tightly.
“It’s different,” Ali protested. “We have always lived side by side with the human world. The shafit have been part of our society for generations.”
“And if Sobek is to be believed, if our history is to be believed, so have the marids,” Muntadhir retorted. “Is your mother suddenly a monster for carrying marid blood? Is Zaynab?” When Ali didn’t reply Muntadhir shook his head. “You are so wise, yet so blind, Ali. The people who call you a monster are as ignorant as those who call the shafit dirt-bloods. Maybe more ignorant, given all you’ve done to serve them. I would cut out their tongues if I thought it would make you believe me.”
“I don’t think cutting out tongues is necessary,” said Ali, aiming for lightness in his tone.
“Maybe I should cut out yours if you call yourself names again,” said Muntadhir darkly. He sighed, looking desperately sad. “If I had known you thought this way, I might have helped you sooner.” He looked at Ali. “Is this truly what has kept you away from Nahri for five years?”
Ali hesitated, his silence perhaps speaking louder than he intended it to.
“Nahri does not think of you this way,” Muntadhir said. “She loves you, it is clear for anyone to see. Loves you as you are. She is not afraid of different colored eyes or a strange patch of skin. Surely you know she is not so shallow.”
“Of course she’s not shallow, it’s just…” he struggled to find the words to capture his thoughts. “She is so respected, so loved. By everyone. She has won over even the most hostile tribes with her work. How can I tarnish her by associating her with me? Tying her to a mons—” he stopped mid word at Muntadhir’s murderous look— “Tying her to me.”
“You don’t see what I see, akhi,” Muntadhir replied. “Strangers may fear you or call you ignorant names, but not those who have met you. I spend my time meeting with people from all over this city, did you forget? And I promise you that the ones who have worked with you have nothing but praise for you. It’s true,” he continued, seeing Ali’s skeptical expression. “Every day I hear stories of your clever ideas, your skill as a fighter, your fairness, your honor. Even those who resent you admit you are clearly honest and compassionate in your judgements. No one who has taken time to know you would think any less of you for your connection with the marid. Surely all your work, all your good qualities count for more than a little strangeness in your appearance or your magic.”
“Funny that you of all people would be the one to tell me that appearances don’t matter.”
Muntadhir sighed. “Does it really come back to that?”
Ali took a sip of coffee again, thinking. “I just don’t want to disappoint her.”
“Ali, do you really think Nahri would be disappointed with you?”
“Maybe, I don’t know!” said Ali. “Maybe not as a friend, but maybe as a husband. She was married to you, after all.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you’re…you. You’re…” Ali flushed and searched for a word. “You’re…handsome and charming and…experienced.”
Muntadhir burst out laughing. “Don’t make fun of me, I’m being serious,” Ali protested.
“I’m sorry, but if you think Nahri would remember being married to me with anything but distaste, then you don’t know her as well as I thought.” Muntadhir smiled gently. “If you don’t believe me, then ask her yourself. She’s never been shy with her opinions, I’m sure she’d be quick to disabuse you of any of your worries about a possible marriage with her.”
Ali hummed noncommittally. He knew that Nahri would not hold back her thoughts about him, which is precisely what made him so hesitant to ask.
“It’s strange to hear you so doubtful of yourself, you know,” said Muntadhir as he leaned back against the cushions.
“Why?”
“Because you have so few reasons to. Everything I’ve said about you is true, all your good qualities. Even when you were a naive young trainee in the Citadel, you were always the best of us. The best son. That’s why our father always favored you.”
Ali saw a flicker of sadness across his brother’s face. Shaking his head, he replied: “Dhiru, you are the one with all the skill for politics. The skills to be king. I would not last a day in court if I didn’t have you by my side.”
“You’d do better than you think,” said Muntadhir, sipping his coffee. “You can bury even the smoothest talker under your facts and figures. And my political skill is mostly lies and flattery.” He swirled his cup, avoiding Ali’s eyes. “You speak of despoiling others, but you are the purest soul who tries to set foot in that palace. If anyone is sullying others, it is not you, akhi, it’s me.”
“That’s not true,” Ali replied.
Muntadhir snorted. “Trust me, I have sinned more today than you have in your lifetime.”
Ali heard the bitterness in his brother’s tone, a bitterness he longed to wash away. He thought again of all that Muntadhir was capable of hiding behind his carefree jokes and revelry. He wanted to comfort his brother, to tell him that his faith had taught him forgiveness and love, not anger at whatever crimes Muntadhir was worried he was guilty of. After so many years of silence, he wished he and his brother could finally share things openly with each other. Perhaps now was the moment he had waited for.
Framing his thoughts cautiously, Ali spoke. “When you say you sin, is that because of Jamshid? Because if it is, akhi, I promise you there is no reason to judge yourself for that.”
Muntadhir drew in a sharp breath, and Ali worried he had said the wrong thing. Maybe he’d misunderstood the subject of his brother’s supposed sins. Would Muntadhir now think Ali was speaking of sin and his lover in a single breath in order to shame him? Ali was suddenly terrified that he had ruined the peace between them. Nervously, Ali sat silent, waiting for his brother to answer. When he did, it was barely above a whisper.
“You know?”
Ali nodded, relieved that he hadn’t totally misread the conversation. “Yes, I know. But please don’t think I’m angry, Dhiru. I’m happy. I’m happy for the life you have with him.”
“Do you mean that?” Muntadhir’s voice was hesitant, as if he hardly dared hope Ali would grant him even his small acceptance.
“Of course I mean it,” Ali replied earnestly. “It hurts me that you ever had to hide from me.” He reached out and rested his hand on his brother’s arm. “I have looked up to you since the time I could walk, Dhiru. I admire you so much. I hope you know that.”
He didn’t miss the wetness in Muntadhir’s eyes as he replied. “Thank you,” he said simply. “I means a lot to me.” He placed his hand atop Ali’s and squeezed it before letting it go. Ali felt a surge of warmth at the small gesture. His brother was often affectionate, a man of back slaps and hugs, but he often wondered if the friendliness wasn’t all part of his show. For once, Ali felt sure that the feeling in Muntadhir’s gesture was far bigger than the gesture itself. Ali debated whether to say more, but for once he decided to let the moment lie. Muntadhir didn’t need to say anything more if he didn’t want to, and Ali didn’t want to press him. The feeling that passed between them was enough.
There was a long pause before Muntadhir cleared his throat. “Well…” Muntadhir blinked and his vulnerability replaced by a playful mask. “If you admire me so much, perhaps then you will listen to me when I tell you to ask Nahri to marry you before I have to arrange it myself.”
“You would not,” Ali said, taken aback. He suddenly felt panic rising in him at the idea of Muntadhir asking Nahri to marry Ali before he asked her himself. She would never let him live it down.
“I certainly would. I may not be the emir any longer, but I still command some privileges. Since our father is no longer with us, I believe being your elder brother gives me some right to arrange your nuptials. And I’m sure I could convince Jamshid, as your future bride’s elder brother, to make the arrangements on Nahri’s behalf.”
“I told you, I don’t know if this is really what Nahri wants…” said Ali, annoyed that his brother seemed to have forgotten all his doubts about the wisdom of marriage.
“So surely you wouldn’t object if I asked her myself then,” replied Muntadhir with a shrug. “I can ask her if she has objections to marrying my brother and disclose to her all your many shortcomings, and if she does not object then surely the wedding can proceed without delay. We could have the ceremony before the end of the month.”
“It’s really not a good idea. I told you the reasons.”
“And none of them were good,” said Muntadhir. He turned to Ali with a more serious look. “Ali, I can see now I have a great challenge on my hands to uproot the foolish notions in your head of your own inferiority. The Creator must forgive me that I let them grow for so long and did not tend to them, I worry it will take a good deal of effort to remove them now.” He sighed, looking troubled, but continued. “However, I can remedy your relationship failures much more easily. Believe me when I say that if you do not ask the Banu Nahida for her hand in marriage within the week, I shall arrange the marriage myself.”
Ali sat stunned for a moment, overwhelmed by the prospect of proposing to Nahri by the end of the week. What would she say? What would she think, especially after he’d spent so much time avoiding the topic?
“But, akhi…what if she’s angry with me for suggesting it? What if she says no?” Ali asked. He realized he sounded rather pitiful, but he could not help the fear that crept into his voice.
Muntadhir looked at him gently. “If Nahri is angry, it will be because you have delayed so long in asking her. You know I am her friend too, and trust me when I say she is in love with you. I do not think she will say no.” He paused. “But if she said no, then better to have asked than always to be left wondering what her answer would be.” Muntadhir sighed and suddenly looked pained. “There are so many things I wonder about, akhi, so many things I could have done differently in the past. With our father. With Jamshid. With you. I could have prevented so much pain and suffering if I had been braver, if I had been less afraid. Don’t let your fears haunt you, Ali.”
Ali looked at the scars that still lingered on his brother’s face and felt a rush of protectiveness over him. He had come so close to losing him once, and he would never take him for granted again. What wouldn’t he have given to sit beside Muntadhir drinking coffee during those days in Cairo when he was certain he was dead? Ali knew each moment with his brother was a blessing, a gift of time.
“I love you, Dhiru,” he said. “And I will talk to Nahri.”