The Theft of Sunlight by Intisar Khanani (story reading .TXT) 📕

around me: Mama and my sisters, and Baba’s gruff care. I even want Muddle with her mixed-up manners and her simple horsey self. What I don’t want is to see the palace cobbler again, or Captain Matsin, or even the princess, really.

Melly returns, shoes in hand, and sets them aside to pour me a cup of tea. “I’m listening,” she says, sitting back. “You can tell me now.”

I stare down at the cup of tea, seeing again the damp, matted visage of the dead horse’s head within the grave. But no, that’s not the worst of it. I take a breath and say, “She tested me, to see if I would tell her secrets.”

“I see.”

“I didn’t, of course, but I’d rather not work for someone who would do that to me.” The faint purple edge of a bruise just shows below the hem of my sleeve. My fault, certainly, in aggressively defending myself, but I shouldn’t have had to feel the need to defend myself at all.

Melly worries at her lip with her teeth. “She probably needed to know, early on, if you would betray her.”

“So she betrays me instead?”

“Was it a betrayal?”

It felt like one. The words rest on my tongue, but I don’t want to speak them. Perhaps I’m overreacting. Perhaps I’m just not cut out for this.

“You called it a test,” Melly observes when I don’t answer.

“Yes. And it made me see that I don’t know how politics works, Melly. I don’t understand it, and I don’t want any part of it. Because if that’s how things begin, I can’t assume they’ll get any better.”

Melly shakes her head. “Now that she knows she can trust you, there’s no need for her to try you again. The royal family values loyalty. You’ve proven yourself already, on your first day. It will only get better from here.”

Will it? And better in what way? I’ll be following the princess around, privy to secrets I can’t even comprehend, to what purpose? None that I can see. She doesn’t really need me for her house of healing project; it’s already being overseen by others. They can send her whatever updates she might need.

“I should have just stayed home,” I say, looking down at my tea. “The princess can find someone else to keep her secrets. I don’t want them.”

Melly frowns. “It’s not like you to walk away from a responsibility. Whatever happened, and whatever secret you are privy to, are not small things, are they? Don’t answer—I know you can’t. I wish Filadon were here to discuss this all.”

“What sort of advice would he give?” I ask.

Melly shrugs. “The political sort. Whether to extract yourself or not, and how. But I imagine he wouldn’t want you to leave yet.”

No, not after he introduced me. My performance—and loyalty—will reflect on him. What would it cost me to stay just through the wedding and then bow out? Would that be enough to keep from injuring Filadon’s relationship with the royals? “I could stay through the wedding, but I don’t want to stay with the princess all summer. I don’t think I can handle it much longer than the wedding—if I can manage that at all. Horses don’t politick like this.”

Melly looks toward the door, and I can almost see the thoughts ticking through her mind. “Let me consult with Filadon. Tomorrow we can come up with a plan for you.”

Which means I will have to get back on my feet and limp my way to the royal wing for the night, though at least not quite yet. I still have to finish my tea.

“There is the cobbler,” Melly says at the sound of a knock on the outer room’s door.

I grimace.

“I’ll handle him,” Melly says with a warrior’s ferocity in her eyes.

Better her than me.

The cobbler appears quite pleased to be shown into the inner sitting room, despite being called here so late in the evening. But the moment Melly meets his gaze, he realizes it is not because we wished to show him honor or beg his aid.

“Kel Herra,” she says with biting politeness. “I am afraid the shoes you have provided my cousin will not do.”

He straightens his shoulders. “I improved their design, veria. It may require a tweak or two, but . . .”

“Cousin,” Melly says, nodding at me. “Would you be so good as to show Kel Herra what one day in his ‘improved’ shoes has cost you?”

I don’t want to. Once he looks at my turned foot, he’ll blame my deformity for the damage his shoes have done me, but I grit my teeth and extend my foot, baring the discolored bandages.

He frowns. “I don’t see how that could happen, veria. Are you—”

“Indeed,” Melly says, cutting him off, “and yet it has. My cousin’s feet do not just develop blisters of their own accord; it is the shoes that are at fault. We require a new set of shoes tomorrow, made on the old pattern, if you are able.” Her tone makes it clear she has her doubts.

“Of course I can follow a pattern,” he says haughtily. “Anyone can follow a pattern, even a bad one. But that will hardly produce a shoe I would be proud of.”

“Are you proud of these?” I demand, holding up the slippers I’ve worn all day. The inner leather is stained with blood and fluid.

“The workmanship is perfectly fine,” he says.

Oh yes, because my foot is to blame, nothing else.

“A well-made shoe will not harm the wearer,” Melly says coldly. “That is the most basic definition of well made. We put our trust in you, kel, and I expect you to make this right.”

Herra flushes and dips his head. I let Melly complete the conversation. By the time he leaves, he’s promised to deliver a new set of slippers by morning, and will wait to hear from me before starting the next pair. I only hope I’ll be able to tell how well the new shoes fit despite my blisters. Though I may not need the