Page 58 of The Jasad Crown

SEFA

Servants rushed around Sefa, bumping her shoulder and shooting her harried scowls.

“My apologies,” she mumbled, pressing herself into a corner. The chaos in the kitchen reminded her of mornings at the keep, except here she didn’t understand how to navigate the flow.

Grease popped and fizzled as fried eggs slid onto plates. An eggplant, its skin softened over a low flame, was peeled and mashed. A dash of oil, salt, and tahina later, and the plate went into a running servant’s hands.

They forgot to squeeze lemon over it. People always forgot the lemon.

Frozen fiteer flipped on a hot pan until the dough flaked golden brown. To Sefa’s surprise, the cook drizzled honey and molasses directly onto the fiteer. Sefa had always poured the honey in a separate bowl for dipping.

Once the kitchen had emptied save a handful, Sefa stepped toward the most senior-looking staff member and said, with a confidence she didn’t possess, “I wanted to bring the Sultana’s breakfast to her quarters. Could you help me?”

The woman glanced at her, then at the rest of the servants. A girl no older than seventeen opened her mouth. “Of course,” cut in the senior servant, speaking over the girl. “We would be morethan happy to assist you in delivering breakfast to the Sultana’s quarters.”

“But—” tried the girl again.

“Salwa, gather a tray for the Sultana’s attendant. Now.” The glare quieted Salwa. The girl hastily collected a tray from the counter and began to pile it with food.

The servant cocked her hip against the counter. “Your name is Zahra, correct? I am Birta, head of the southern kitchen.”

The man standing next to Salwa inclined his head. “Radwan.”

They spoke with a thick Lukubi accent Sefa hadn’t heard since she was little. Her father’s accent had never faded, even after they moved to Nizahl. Sefa closed her eyes against the rush of nostalgia. She usually tried not to think of her father if she could help it.

Sefa had never quite worked out how to forgive him for dying.

On the bright side, the reminder had done away with Sefa’s hunger. She accepted the tray from Salwa with a gentle smile. The girl averted her gaze and retreated behind Radwan.

Sefa opened her mouth to ask for directions to the Sultana’s wing and paused. Radwan and Birta were exchanging smirks; Salwa had placed her nails between her teeth and appeared intent on gnawing to the bone. They were awaiting her question, noses already turned up to avoid the stench of her ignorance.

“Thank you for the food,” Sefa said, and left.

Luckily, finding the Sultana’s wing took significantly less effort than finding the kitchen. The tapestries grew more elaborate, the rugs plusher, the air sweeter.

At the end of the short hall leading to the Sultana’s door, Sefa faced her third challenge of an increasingly long morning. She couldn’t knock without putting the tray down, and the guards on either side of the hall wouldn’t twitch a muscle to help her. But what if she put the tray on the ground and the Sultana opened the door right away? She would see Sefa standing with the Sultana’s breakfastby her feet. Since the guards refused to move, maybe Sefa could balance the tray on their heads.

Sefa cleared her throat. “Sultana? I have your breakfast.”

The silence on the other side of the door turned the ball of nerves in Sefa’s belly to a boulder. What if in the cold light of day, the Sultana had changed her mind about needing an attendant? What if someone had already brought her food and the servants had neglected to mention it to Sefa? This might not be the Sultana’s room, even, and the story of Sefa’s mistake would turn her into an overnight laughingstock.

A rustling, followed by a low chuckle, emerged from behind the door. “My breakfast.”

Thank the Awaleen. Sefa bent down, peeling exactly two fingers from her grip on the tray to push the handle.

“Good morning, Sultana!” The door opened a sliver, and Sefa rejoiced as she shouldered it the rest of the way. Overcome with victory, she walked into a pitch-black room and immediately tripped.

She fell and landed elbows-first, the tray still clutched in her panicked grip. The clatter of rolling dishes pained her almost as much as the tea splashing over her hands. At least she could confirm it hadn’t grown cold.

Sunlight spilled into the chambers, illuminating Sefa in all her glorious humiliation. A naked man blinked down at her from next to the parted curtain. Oil smeared over his chest and shoulders, gleaming on his dark skin, and Sefa made the mistake of following it down to—oh. Oh no.

Abandoning the tray, Sefa lurched to her feet. Sultana Vaida sat up in her luxurious bed, in a similar state of undress as her guest. Instead of oil, bright red streaked the regal column of her throat, swirling along her jaw and the cut of her cheekbone.

Not blood, Sefa determined after a pause. Just paint.

Vaida turned on the bed, covers slipping as she settled her feeton the ground. The man by the window switched his attention to Vaida, a lecherous hunger ripening in his features.

Shoulders sharper than twin blades folded back as Vaida stretched, drawing her robe over her arms and looping the belt lazily around her waist.

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