SAMPLE CHAPTERS ONLY

His eyes fall on the scar running from his shoulder to his upper arm. He traces a finger over it, caught between two worlds-one with her, and one without. Tilting his head, he runs his tongue over the healing wound her dagger left. Such was the ferocity of her attack that the wound still burns as if raw, much like his love for her. That woman will forever be the queen of his heart.

He grins as he kisses the corner of his scar, his lips grazing its length in a feather-light caress before he pulls back.

"You think you're crazy in love, Buraq? But look at me. Who would have thought a woman with spellbinding eyes could bring a man like me to his knees? Sorceress, isn't she?" He laughs.

⁀➴

"Annas!"

Horses shift in their stalls on either side as she steps into the stable with Eskander. A man looks up from the horse he's feeding at Eskander's call.

"Prepare my horse," Eskander orders. "And one for the lady as well."

"Can I have the one I rode here with Adam?" Noura asks.

"Which one was it, azizam?"

"It was gray and white, as if stars had been scattered all over it."

Eskander smiles at her words and motions the man over. He comes forward, eyes downcast.

"Annas, which horse did the lady ride to Baghdad?"

A few minutes later, Annas brings forth Eskander's steed and the gray and white one Noura had asked for.

She pets its mane. "I still haven't named him."

Eskander arches an eyebrow. "You want to?"

She nods. "I asked Adam and he said I could." Turning to Eskander, she adds, "His mare is named Hayat. She's beautiful."

"Yusuf bin Khalid once owned a pair-a black stallion and a white mare-Buraq and Hayat," Eskander says. "Hayat was the caliph's last gift to his wife before his fall. After his dethronement, Malika Arwa refused to keep the mare and passed her to Adam."

"What about the stallion?"

"It disappeared with the caliph."

Eskander helps her into the saddle before mounting his own. Together, they lead their horses out of the stable.

Curious, she asks, "How come?"

"No one knows," he replies. "But it was the most magnificent stallion. Beastly, almost more than a horse."

She's instantly reminded of the horse she had seen on the dusk of the theft. The man who carried the caliph's seal also rode a black horse, unlike any she had ever seen before. She considers telling Eskander, but before she can, the sais calls him.

"Sayyidi?"

Eskander turns to him. "Yes, Annas?"

"The messenger has left a letter for you."

"Is it from my mother?"

She perks up at the thought, but her hope fades at Annas's reply.

"No, sayyidi. It's from your friend, al-Hadi."

Eskander nods. "Keep it. I'll meet him on my way back from the bazaar."

Annas tips his head and steps back.

Eskander snaps the reins, and she follows. Soon they're riding side by side along the dusty trails of Baghdad, the afternoon sun blazing overhead.

Nostalgia is a ruthless creature. It sleeps in the deepest recesses of you, still and unmoving, letting you believe you live free. Until one day, it bares its teeth at the faintest glimpse of the past-a touch so slight it's only a graze, yet enough to rouse the beast that will devour you.

Passing through the streets of her hometown, she feels herself succumbing to that very creature. Her eyes brim with tears as memories surge, blinding her. She blinks to clear her vision, as if mending the cracks in her soul, the stitches coming undone after years of holding them together. After so many years, she finds herself failing.

"Nour?"

Their horses slow to a halt. Eskander's gaze lingers on her, and she musters a faint smile through her sorrow.

"So much has changed." She cranes her neck, drinking in the streets. "But it still feels like home."

Silent, he dismounts his horse and steps forward, offering her his hand. She takes it, and he helps her down, his fingers tightening around hers. She doesn't pull back either, staring into his eyes that sink the ships of her resolve.

This man will be the death of her.

Then, as always, he withdraws, as if suddenly aware of a transgression. She swallows and glances away, clasping her hands to quiet the tingling his touch has left behind.

They make their way into the bazaar, sprawling as far as her gaze can reach. Everywhere, traders and merchants have set up stalls, their wares ranging from food and clothes to jewelry and carpets.

Eskander passes them, glancing at each stall, as if searching for something of interest but finding none. She does the same, though unlike him, everything fascinates her.

She moves closer to him. "What are we looking for?"

"Something worthy of you."

Her heart leaps at his words. It thuds madly over something so simple, yet she cannot help but give it a thousand meanings. What a wild little thing her ribcage shelters. What a treacherous organ. It plays with her and beats for him. It makes her weave dreams, foolish and fragile.

Once more, guilt rises within her for the feelings she's secretly nurturing for Eskander. He might very well be oblivious to the world she's building in her head with him.

He halts at a stall, and she turns to see what has caught his attention. Laid before them are ornaments of gold and silver, studded with gemstones: headpieces, necklaces, and more, glittering in the sun.

Eskander scans the pieces on display. "Which one do you like, Nour?"

She pauses to take it all in, her love for jewelry urging her to gather every piece into her arms.

"I don't know. What do you think?" she deflects, leaving the choice to him.

He hums, his fingers drifting from one piece to the next, until he lifts a gold anklet, an elegant chain with sapphires set at intervals, twinkling like stars.

"You've great taste, sayyidi! This comes from the best goldsmiths of Baghdad. Only a single piece remains," the seller boasts, eager to tempt him.

Eskander smirks. "Is it so?"

"Yes, sayyidi. And your wife seems to like it as well. You should gift it to her."

Heat floods her cheeks at the seller's remark, yet Eskander remains unbothered. He kneels, anklet in hand, and lifts his eyes to her. Realization strikes, and shame drowns her at what he's silently suggesting.

Hesitantly, she raises her dress just enough for him to fasten it. His deft fingers secure the clasp, and when he rises with a smile, her heart is lost to him for the hundredth time.

Eskander turns to the seller. "We'll take it."

He pays the man, while she struggles to steady her frenzied heart.

They leave the stall and stroll through the bazaar. Giddy, she chews her lip to contain the silly grin tugging at her mouth. She hopes Eskander doesn't notice her lovesick foolishness.

"You know," she begins once she gathers herself, "before I was brought to Baghdad, I went to the bazaar after the incident with the thief."

Eskander walks side by side with her, his steps deliberate and unrushed.

"He stole the pendant Baba gave me, and I was so used to wearing it that its absence wouldn't let me rest. So I went looking for something to replace it."

Eskander's gaze flicks down to her neck, then back to her eyes. "Did you find something you like?"

"I did. It was a crescent moon pendant carved out of crystal."

"Did you buy it?"

She shakes her head. "It was too costly."

He halts abruptly, forcing her to stop too.

A crease forms between his eyebrows. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She tilts her head, frowning. "What?"

"That you wanted a pendant." He turns, already moving. "Come, I'll buy you one."

"No, no, Eskander, there's no need," she blurts, flustered at him taking it the wrong way. "That's not what I meant. Besides, I like the anklet better."

"I still want to get you a pendant," he presses. "Your neck looks bare without it. I'm used to seeing you with one."

She gently tugs him by the sleeve. "You've already bought me a gift. That's enough."

"I insist, Nour." He slips free of her hold. "I know I cannot get you the same pendant Baba jan gave you, but at least it will still be something to adorn your neck."

She purses her lips, unable to argue anymore. "Fine."

"Do you want me to choose again, or do you want to pick one yourself?"

"I trust you with it."

He smiles and gestures toward another stall. "How about you go and select daggers for us?"

She chuckles, nodding. "I won't disappoint."

"Find good ones, janam, sharp enough to cut straight to the heart."

"That's a very sinister specification."

"There are people like Muawwiz in my life who need it."

She laughs at the joke. "I'll search for something up to your standards."

"Don't stray far from here," he instructs. "I don't want to be looking for you like a madman in this crowd."

They part ways, going in opposite directions. She glances over her shoulder at Eskander, only to find he has already disappeared among the crowd.

Distracted, she bumps into someone and stumbles back. The man loses his balance, and the small clay pot he carries crashes to the ground. It shatters into countless pieces, milk spilling across the mud.

Her lips part, her eyes widening as she looks apologetically at the man. "I'm so sorry."

He keeps staring at the spilled milk, a half-loaf of bread clutched in his other hand. He wears a plain tunic with a worn cloak over it, his hood drawn low to mask his face.

From his garments, he looks poor. The thought unsettles her further, her absent-mindedness costing him his milk. To her embarrassment, she realizes she has no money with her to repay the man. She'll have to wait for Eskander to recompense him.

"I'll buy you more milk," she offers, worrying the sleeves of her cloak.

The man finally lifts his gaze to her. The color of his eyes stuns her first, then numbs her, dragging her from the present to a nameless past, abandoning her in a time she doesn't know.

A strong sense of familiarity crashes over her like a tidal wave. She has seen those eyes before. They're mismatched, one blue and the other brown. Eccentric. Unforgettable.

Yet no matter how much she tries, she cannot trace where this man's threads tangle with her memories. She gapes at him, flabbergasted, failing to connect the dots.

"I... I, uh..." Noura cannot form a coherent thought.

He turns around and walks away.

"Wait!"

She hurries after him, but he doesn't stop, vanishing into the crowd.

She drags her feet back to the spilled milk, the man's eyes set in her mind like carvings in stone. Where has she seen those eyes before? Why can't she remember? Perhaps someone with eyes like his. Perhaps a passerby.

"Nour?"

She snaps out of her reverie at Eskander's voice, blinking. He draws his eyebrows together, his gaze holding an unspoken question.

Her shoulders slump. "I spilled a poor man's milk."

"Whose?"

"I don't know. He left before I could offer to pay him."

"Let me know if you see him again. I'll pay him." He gestures at a stall with a one-sided, playful smile. "Come, let's buy daggers. Your pendant is a gift you'll have to wait for."

She smiles, the memory of the man fading away in Eskander's company as he leads her on.

Some time later, a man meets them at the bazaar. He's fair-skinned, with a softness to his features that lends him a boyish air. Dark brown curls, touched lighter by the sun, fall loosely over his head. His hazel eyes, so close to Eskander's, pair with thin lips set in a line and a faint beard along his jaw. Eskander introduces him as Hafez to her.

"Nour, Hafez will be your guard during your stay at the palace," Eskander says.

Hafez tips his head at her. She returns the gesture.

"Hafez," he continues, "Noura al-Makhzum is my family. Stay by her side at all times. Any negligence will not be forgiven."

Hafez places a fist over his heart. "I'll guard her with my life, sayyidi."

Eskander sends her back to the palace with her new guard, while he stays behind to meet a friend.

Twilight draws the sun down to the horizon. On the balcony of her chamber, the day's events circle through her mind. A bubble of joy swells and bursts in her chest every time her gaze falls on her anklet. A grin keeps dancing across her lips, heedless of the servants who bring her meal, change her sheets, or murmur words she doesn't hear.

By the time she leaves the balcony, darkness has already summoned the stars forth. Eskander probably still hasn't returned. On the divan by the window rests a dinner tray, beside it a small jewelry box. She picks it up, turning it in her hands. It's intricately designed with roses and vines.

Eskander. She grins.

Is this the pendant he promised her? He had asked her to wait. Perhaps he changed his mind.

Elated, almost skittish, she opens the box with trembling fingers. Inside lies a pendant. The very one she had admired in the bazaar of Isfahan but never bought, and which she hadn't seen at the bazaar of Baghdad today.

Her heart stutters to a stop.

How could Eskander have found her the exact same pendant?