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Authors: Tara Pammi
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of the royal family.”
Blinking, Ayaan leaned back against the chair. He had no idea if the Siyaadi princess could cook. For the first time in months, a strange anticipation filled him. But no matter what, he knew he was in for an interesting couple of hours.
Not just today, any time spent with his unconventional wife was always interesting. At the least.
He looked over to his right just as Zohra arrived at the entrance to the hall accompanied by fanfare and an army of excited servants.
Spying the anxiety in her gaze, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, Ayaan felt the most uncharacteristic surge of concern. From the corner of his eye, he could see Zohra approach the table with dragging footsteps that clearly said she wanted to be anywhere but here. In her hands was the centuries-old, gleaming silver bowl he remembered seeing long ago. Behind her, similar bowls were being carried by the kitchen staff and laid beside the low-slung divans where the palace staff were seated.
“Place the bowl on the table by Prince Ayaan’s side, Princess Zohra.” His mother’s voice rang clearly in the deafening silence of a hundred and more curiously waiting gazes.
Her reluctance a tangible thing in the air around them, Zohra placed the bowl on the table next to Ayaan. A distinctive smell, sweet and... burned , wafted into the air around them.
His nostrils flaring, Ayaan glanced into the silver bowl. He gasped when he saw the contents, hearing the same sound fall from his mother’s mouth and his father’s cough. The dark brown, charred substance in the bowl looked like no dessert he knew.
His mouth twitched, and a sudden lightness filled his chest. Raising his head, he chanced a look at his mother. Her forehead tied into a frown, she was looking at the bowl with a shocked expression that had him clamping his mouth tight.
Whispers emerged from the staff around them, the more senior members even slanting a quick puzzled look at the bowl, but Ayaan couldn’t help himself. Clearing his throat, which felt really hard, he looked up and met Zohra’s gaze. “What is this, Princess?”
Her dark gaze fiery enough to burn him, she answered from tightly clamped lips, “ Halwa, Prince Ayaan. ”
He didn’t heed the warning in her voice. “You mean this is carrots and nuts?”
“Yes.”
Fidgeting in his seat, he met his father’s eyes at the head of table. Seeing the twinkle in his aged eyes, the tight set of his twitching mouth made Ayaan lose the tenuous hold on himself.
He laughed, the very act of it shaking his body from head to toe. And heard his father’s peal of laughter alongside his own. His throat raw, Ayaan covered his face with his fingers but to no avail. His jaw and stomach hurt, but in the best way.
His body had no memory of what it felt like to laugh. Every face around them, including his mother’s, watched him and the princess alternately, torn between the desire to laugh and bone-deep propriety.
Every time he looked at his father, it started again. He had no idea how long they laughed, but soon, he had tears in his eyes. “This is...” he choked, “ Ya Allah , exactly like...”
His lean frame shaking with laughter, his father nodded, his mouth curled into a wide smile. “When Amira made—”
“When Amira made Awwameh on her twenty-first birthday,” his mother finished, tears in her own eyes. Swallowing at the sight, Ayaan nodded, glad that her eyes were full of remembered laughter rather than the familiar shadows of grief.
“She hated every moment of it, too,” his father said, looking at Zohra with a fond smile. “And Azeez and Ayaan teased her mercilessly for months.”
A smile still curving his mouth, Ayaan met Zohra’s gaze.
“Queen Fatima,” Zohra’s crystal clear tones rang through their laughter, laden with the promise of retribution, “who did you say tastes the new bride’s dessert first?”
His laughter cut short, Ayaan shook his head and met his mother’s gaze.
Blinking, Ayaan leaned back against the chair. He had no idea if the Siyaadi princess could cook. For the first time in months, a strange anticipation filled him. But no matter what, he knew he was in for an interesting couple of hours.
Not just today, any time spent with his unconventional wife was always interesting. At the least.
He looked over to his right just as Zohra arrived at the entrance to the hall accompanied by fanfare and an army of excited servants.
Spying the anxiety in her gaze, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, Ayaan felt the most uncharacteristic surge of concern. From the corner of his eye, he could see Zohra approach the table with dragging footsteps that clearly said she wanted to be anywhere but here. In her hands was the centuries-old, gleaming silver bowl he remembered seeing long ago. Behind her, similar bowls were being carried by the kitchen staff and laid beside the low-slung divans where the palace staff were seated.
“Place the bowl on the table by Prince Ayaan’s side, Princess Zohra.” His mother’s voice rang clearly in the deafening silence of a hundred and more curiously waiting gazes.
Her reluctance a tangible thing in the air around them, Zohra placed the bowl on the table next to Ayaan. A distinctive smell, sweet and... burned , wafted into the air around them.
His nostrils flaring, Ayaan glanced into the silver bowl. He gasped when he saw the contents, hearing the same sound fall from his mother’s mouth and his father’s cough. The dark brown, charred substance in the bowl looked like no dessert he knew.
His mouth twitched, and a sudden lightness filled his chest. Raising his head, he chanced a look at his mother. Her forehead tied into a frown, she was looking at the bowl with a shocked expression that had him clamping his mouth tight.
Whispers emerged from the staff around them, the more senior members even slanting a quick puzzled look at the bowl, but Ayaan couldn’t help himself. Clearing his throat, which felt really hard, he looked up and met Zohra’s gaze. “What is this, Princess?”
Her dark gaze fiery enough to burn him, she answered from tightly clamped lips, “ Halwa, Prince Ayaan. ”
He didn’t heed the warning in her voice. “You mean this is carrots and nuts?”
“Yes.”
Fidgeting in his seat, he met his father’s eyes at the head of table. Seeing the twinkle in his aged eyes, the tight set of his twitching mouth made Ayaan lose the tenuous hold on himself.
He laughed, the very act of it shaking his body from head to toe. And heard his father’s peal of laughter alongside his own. His throat raw, Ayaan covered his face with his fingers but to no avail. His jaw and stomach hurt, but in the best way.
His body had no memory of what it felt like to laugh. Every face around them, including his mother’s, watched him and the princess alternately, torn between the desire to laugh and bone-deep propriety.
Every time he looked at his father, it started again. He had no idea how long they laughed, but soon, he had tears in his eyes. “This is...” he choked, “ Ya Allah , exactly like...”
His lean frame shaking with laughter, his father nodded, his mouth curled into a wide smile. “When Amira made—”
“When Amira made Awwameh on her twenty-first birthday,” his mother finished, tears in her own eyes. Swallowing at the sight, Ayaan nodded, glad that her eyes were full of remembered laughter rather than the familiar shadows of grief.
“She hated every moment of it, too,” his father said, looking at Zohra with a fond smile. “And Azeez and Ayaan teased her mercilessly for months.”
A smile still curving his mouth, Ayaan met Zohra’s gaze.
“Queen Fatima,” Zohra’s crystal clear tones rang through their laughter, laden with the promise of retribution, “who did you say tastes the new bride’s dessert first?”
His laughter cut short, Ayaan shook his head and met his mother’s gaze.
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