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THE DAY BEFORE THE ROYAL WEDDING—which Dilruba Badawi had yearned for the approaching of, so that she could get her appointment the next day quickly done and dusted—came still quicker than she had anticipated. And for more reasons than one, this time around did not feel like it was just an appointment the governor of Hegra had secured for her.

The mere fact of that realization frustrated Dilruba. She did not fraternize with the people she performed for ahead of the performance, she wasn't ever gaslit into caring for the event—she was to be a part of entertainment in—on a deeper level. But in this particular case, the build up to the event had settled somewhere deep inside her, and she did know who to blame.

It was Agrabah itself. For when on previous occasions Dilruba had travelled to cities, on the governor of Hegra's summons, spread all over Arabia—Dumat al-Jandal, Madain Saleh, Al Ula, Qurayyah, Jeddah and even Tayma itself—she had arrived on the day before the performance and event, leaving the city the next morning.

She hadn't ever stayed days in a city like she had in Agrabah. Now, somehow, everyone she had talked to, met, seen, were all associated with the appointment she had come here for. Jasmine, Aladdin, The Sultan, the genie, that slightly wild—and rather depraved looking—monkey at Aladdin's trousers, and even that dark handsome savior of Dilruba's. They were all what she thought of when she thought of the appointment she had come here for.

Even this marketplace—wherein she walked at present, her expert kohl-lined green eyes examining the vibrant stalls full of exotically colored fabric and jewels—was associated with the appointment. Even the rough streets of Agrabah wherein she had almost been trampled alongside a little street boy. Agrabah itself was the appointment Dilruba had come for, and when tomorrow hailed and she danced her dance after the bride and groom said their I do's, the appointment will come to an end and she will leave for Hegra.

Dilruba spotted a distinct dark blue colored fabric draped on display at a stall from a distance. The fabric glittered blindingly, quickening something in her as she made a beeline for it, slipping past the bargaining and bartering customers crowding every other stall in her way.

Ahya, sensing her mistress' interest, followed close behind, glancing at the slightly softening Agraban sky above. It was two hours past the afternoon, and though the light of the sun would still stay for hours yet, the worst of the sun was over.

The stall that housed the fabric, was crowded by three homely dressed women, their thick and stout forms covered in dull linen, with the same fabric covering the hair on their heads. Their hands-thick and calloused-from housework, ran over the fabric in ecstasy as all three women tried to assert dominance over their handling of the fabric.

The seller—a thin man with his bones sticking out at his collars and wrists as half his head drowned in the hefty turban he wore—was not amused the women's eagerness, for it seemed that they hadn't the capacity to make a purchase in accordance with the price he had set.

The thin man's gouging eyes watched Dilruba approach from his left, and instantly, he snatched the fabric from underneath the women's admiring scrutiny of it, and swiftly draped it at the left of the stall just as Dilruba neared it. The women—standing in the front of the stall—looked bewildered at the fabric's sudden vanishing and reappearing at the left for another customer.

"Ah, mistress," The vendor mused, his voice scratchy. "I see you have sought out the only fabric in the world that was made for you in mind."

Dilruba fixed her eyes on the material, her fingers gently touching the fabric. It was the darkest blue she had ever seen, and under a certain shift in light, it glittered majestically. Jasmine often wore blues that were light—so light they were almost the color of the sky at the most boring of days. But this color? This was gorgeous, and so deep. This color felt like all of Dilruba's emotions and thoughts put together. Though she was an advocate of the color red on her body, this kind of midnight blue resonated with her at present.

And it would be perfect to make her peacock-esque ensemble out of, for her performance at the wedding tomorrow.

"It has been imported, mistress," The seller began, as the three other women at his stall huffed and walked away in annoyance, their muttered disagreements blending in with the boisterous environment of the busy marketplace.

"All the way from the South of Asia," He finished, "You won't see it's like in any corner of Arabia."

"Won't I?" Dilruba asked, unamused. "It feels like it has been made in Arabia."

The girl pressed the fabric between her two fingers, recognition of Arabian fabrics surging through her. In her line of work, Dilruba had enough experience with fabrics to recognize an authentic Arabian piece of work.

The seller hesitated, only then taking in the girl's appearance properly. He looked at the plum colored abaya she wore, it's material an expensive one, with an extension of the plum coloured fabric covering her head, her dark hair peeking from underneath with pieces at her shoulders and the length of her locks at her back.

She was finely dressed for the marketplace, and one look at Dilruba gave the idea of a privileged—noble—upbringing. A deception that she had learned to play at. For this particular deception protected her life as much as it endangered it. Here, in the busy marketplace of Agrabah, no man would dream of starting anything untoward with a woman who was looked like a noblewoman and was probably being watched over by her protective guards, father or brothers from some corner of the marketplace or the windows of the dozens of houses and establishments lining the street.

She looked like someone connected to someone else who had influence. Influence that would immediately endanger a man's head if caught.

"I know when I'm being lied to," Dilruba tilted her head, eyeing the man with a vigilance.

"Ah, mistress," The man held his ears. "The inspiration for the fabric was imported, honest mistake. But I promise you this, I'm one of the only ones in Agrabah with fabrics inspired from the South of Asia."

"Mistress," Ahya spoke at Dilruba's ear then, dropping her voice and having to usher close in order to be heard over the marketplace's clamor.

"You look at the fabrics. I have seen some jewelry at a past stall that could be considered for your performance theme, with your permission should I go and inspect it?"

Dilruba nodded once, her gaze still on the midnight blue fabric as her maid sauntered off, leaving her alone at the vendor's stall.

"I need to make an ensemble," Dilruba spoke after a pause, lifting her eyes to look at the vendor. "I do not want the fabric to fall apart. Is it durable with stitches? Can you lay it out thin instead of doubling it so that I can see if it's sheer?"

The man efficiently nodded, pulling the fabric back towards himself before spreading it out thin in front of her.

"It is slightly sheer mistress," He spoke, "For your ensemble you need to double it at your bodice and trousers—only doubling it once will suffice. The sleeves can be left sheer, if you please. The stitching holds perfectly well mistress, this is good fabric."

Dilruba put her hand underneath the fabric, her palm visible to her in a blue sheen. The sheerness of the fabric was perfect. It wasn't too translucent, just mysteriously so. It gave a sultry effect, but did not overpower. Dilruba's mind was already raging with the shape of the beautiful blouse she could stitch with this when suddenly a throat was cleared beside her.

Her eyes lifted to meet the familiar black orbs of a very familiar man.

Dilruba Badawi's savior, had half of his face covered back again with a dark brown cloth, only his dark eyes on display as the extension of the same cloth was wrapped attractively around his hair. He wore a brown vest, the tanned muscles at his shoulders, arms and neck on display. His billowing trousers were a darker brown similar to the cloth on his face, and Dilruba was startled to realize just how the color on him made his tanned skin appear copper gold.

He turned his eyes from her, fixing them on the other items that the vendor had on display, his fingers hastily touching an open box of men's rings.

"Ah, sir," The vendor uttered, quickly reaching for an empty silver platter and grabbing the ring box, tipping the rings onto the platter noisily.

"Is it rings you are interested in? Here, I will show you all the designs I have..," And thus the man began to pick up each ring and explain it's origins and making, his incessant explanation reminiscent of a collector's.

Dilruba's savior—Burhan—had no mind to listen. In fact, he looked as though he had no interest in rings at all. Before the girl could ask herself why he was here, he suddenly appeared close to her side.

"Am I fucking hallucinating or are you everywhere I go?"

His voice was thick in her ear as she fixed her gaze on the dark blue fabric, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ears under the cloth loosely covering her hair. A warmth spread furiously over her neck when she realized just how close he had leant in to whisper to her. The hotness of his breath had touched her ear.

Instead of pretending like he didn't know her, instead of looking at the vendor and the rings he was being shown, or even instead of looking anywhere else but her. Burhan was looking right at her, his posture rigid as she felt his eyes intensely on the side of her face, observing her every hitch and fall in breath. Dilruba raised her eyes to look at him, and her gaze collided right with his intense one. It was as though she was a scroll he had found somewhere in the recesses of a library, and he was now trying to unravel her. She turned her eyes away to the vendor again, watching the man still cluelessly blabber about rings one by one while his customer paid him no attention at all.

"I'm starting to think you are following me, Munqidhi," She spoke softly, keeping her eyes lowered on the fabric that had been displayed for her.

"Maybe I am," The man uttered after a pause, and Dilruba could make out a grin in his voice.

"But mostly, I think you've been leading me to find you. Like I'm a fucking sheep and you're the shepherdess."

Dilruba blushed at his words, biting the inside of her cheek to compose herself whilst feeling his penetrating gaze at the side of her face.

Inhaling a breath, she looked at the vendor. "How much for five yards of this fabric please?"

The vendor, startled back from his ramblings about the tenth ring he was at present holding up, quickly put his endeavor to the side and focused on Dilruba, stating his price.

Conveniently, the fabric was only slightly overpriced, nor far from what she could afford to give at present, considering that she still had yet to find peacock colored jewelry and statement pieces for her headdress, along with mesh or net for her matching veil. Exhaling a breath, she agreed to the price and the vendor set about cutting up five yards of the fabric and packing it up into a linen bag for her.

Dilruba, conscious of the man at her side watching her, bent her head to dig into the small satin pouch she carried in her abayah for her money. Before she could collect the sum from her pouch, her stranger put forward his own hand on the vendor's stall, his palm containing the money—a single byzantine gold coin and a handful of smaller silver coins, the entire sum the vendor had asked for.

"For the lady's fabric," Burhan uttered, his anthracite eyes fixed into the vendor's.

The vendor nodded and took the money in a single swipe.

Dilruba blinked, raising a hand to stop the vendor. "Wait, please."

She turned to look at her stranger then, a pointed look in her eyes. "I can pay for my own fabric, thank you."

Burhan looked unfazed by her refusal, as though he had expected her response entirely. "I know you can, I never said you couldn't."

His tone was blunt, plain as his eyes inspected her confused ones.

"Then why are you paying for it? Don't show me this kind of charity when I—"

"It's not charity," He let out, taking a step close to her, his eyes penetrating.

Then, before she could predict what he would do, he leant in closer to her, turning his head so his lips were inches away from her ear, looking to the rest of the marketplace as though they were just two people sharing a whispered secret.

"If we are going to keep running into each other," He started, his voice low, "Then I'd like for you to be wearing something I paid for the next time I see you."

Dilruba's heart beat quickened.

"In case you are not aware, farashat rayiea, this is how men in Agrabah show appreciation for the women they like. I'm not well versed on Hegran men and their behaviors, but I'm a damn fast learner if you'd like me to be."

Dilruba Badawi bit her bottom lip, her neck heating up as she tried to think of anything to say. But words didn't come to her, and the vendor's packaged fabric did, the linen bag containing the paid for fabric tied in a knot at the top. She turned her eyes away from her savior, taking hold of the linen bag, before looking up at him again.

From this little distance between them, she realized just how tall he was. Her forehead could only match up to his shoulder, and all the while he looked at her, he'd had to keep his neck bent at a certain angle. Dilruba hadn't ever been conscious of her height, for she was an adequately tall woman. She was a few inches taller than Jasmine, and in her own profession, her height was considered one of her attractions. But in front of this man, she felt as though she had always just been short.

"Thank you," She managed then, her gaze fluttering to the vendor briefly as looked back at Burhan, then lowered her gaze, and stepped past him in order to make her way through the street and look at more stalls.

Swiftly, her savior followed her, falling into step right beside her looking as though they had both come to the marketplace to shop together all along.

Dilruba tired to compose herself, feeling the constant blush that she was having deepening by the second. A relatively cool wind blew, carrying with it the smell of polish, perfume and spices. The wind pushed Dilruba's head covering back as it threatened to fall to the back of her neck. She raised her hands to cover her head again, and the linen bag of fabric knocked against her stomach, it's handle putting pressure on her elbow.

Before she could adjust herself, Burhan's finger's were at her elbow. Careful not to touch her, he hooked his fingers at the handle of the bag and took it out from her arm, holding it to his side in his left hand.

Dilruba watched her purchase disappear to his side as he carried it for her.

"Do you not have anything else to do today?" She asked then, trying in vain to keep the smile off her lips. Her gaze was fixed ahead as he looked at the side of her face as the question left her mouth.

"No noble man begging for your attendance at their gathering?"

Burhan grinned underneath the cloth covering half his face, and as he spoke, Dilruba heard his amusement in his voice.

"No, farashat rayiea," He uttered, "I have stopped attending gatherings where a certain lady hasn't been sent for from Hegra to make my time as a guest worthwhile."

The girl bit the inside of her cheek again, definite that she was bruising herself in face of the man's forward manner while she tried to control her flushing. She tried to focus at the task at hand, training her eyes to spot all the things she had set out for the marketplace needing, for the wedding tomorrow.

Dilruba had sat down to write a letter to the governor last night, and had had it dispatched off to Hegra immediately. The wedding was tomorrow and she had no intention to stay in Agrabah after having performed at it. The missive would take two days at most to reach the governor, as per the hefty sum she had paid for it's quick deliverance, and while Dilruba would have to wait a while before leaving Agrabah, at least the wait wouldn't be too much. In hind sight, it should've been a grander idea to dispatch the missive days ago. But the girl had found her nights too late and too occupied to be sitting down to ink a letter to the governor.

Spotting a stall sporting exotic bird feathers and charms for people who liked to make their own jewelry or other costume creations, Dilruba approached it and stopped in front of it, her eyes making note of a tray full of peacock feathers that buyers would purchase more commonly with a quill in mind. She reached a hand to touch the softness of the feathers on the displayed tray gently, the whorls of her fingers being caressed ever so softly by the silk bristles of the feathers. Dilruba marveled at the vibrancy of the colors—the greens and blue of the peacock feathers, as well as bright oranges and reds and even blacks and yellows for other foreign bird feathers she had never seen her life.

The vendor's stall was crowded, but all the rest of the customers were interested in unique charms and small antiques set up in the corner, and as a result the vendor—a thick stout man—was almost yelling on top of his voice trying to spitfire every bit of information he could offer on anything and everything each customer held up.

In Hegra, the vendors weren't really interested in having tales behind their items. They would brag about fabrics, but never anything else. Fruits, jewelry, charms, quills and other things were spoken about to just put out a price. The basic principle was, if it attracts your eye, to buy it or not was your choice. It was a blunt strategy, but it worked so well. Dilruba would see women mull about on vendors' stalls for hours on end in Hegra, ogling something or the other and eventually ending up persuading themselves to buy it because the vendor was perched lazily up on the corner of the stall swatting flies in the heat, doing nothing to offer any interruptive persuasion.

"Are these real?" Dilruba inquired of the vendor in the chaos, her fingers hovering over the feathers as she felt Burhan's form step in right beside her, his bare muscled arm brushing against her clothed elbow.

The stout vendor stopped shouting to look at to his left, at the new customers.

"Yes, madam!" The man's brown forehead shone with perspiration as he shouted again, his tone bearing no malice that came with shouting—only a determined persuasion.

He looked at Dilruba's fingers hovering specifically over the peacock feathers.

"These are real peacock feathers given by my own father, Allah bless his soul," The man continued his shouting, as though he was talking to Dilruba but telling the whole street, "He reared peacocks in our family home and on their death we were rewarded with these feathers. Most have been sold, by the grace of Allah. But these will look beautiful in your luscious hair, madam! If you are considering them for your hair, of course."

Dilruba lifted her hands to cover head properly as she realized her covering had shifted back because of the wind.

"Peacock feathers?" Dilruba's savior spoke then, amusement riddling his voice as she turned her face to meet his eyes.

"I need them for an appointment," Dilruba managed, "A client has requested a theme."

She was almost about to say Jasmine's name, and state that she needed the feathers for tomorrow. If she had, the man next to her wouldn't have been able to connect the dots with precision. He would only know that she was performing for the Princess of Agrabah's wedding. And truth be told, Dilruba didn't mind anyone knowing that. In fact, performing at Jasmine's wedding tomorrow would put Dilruba in demand amongst even more nobles of Agrabah, and other nobles from more cities who attended the wedding tomorrow and saw her dance. They would all—if she did her best and luck was on her side—ask for her for their own events.

Tomorrow would elevate Dilruba's position and fame as a court dancer more, for though she had danced at courts of Sultans before—two Sultans to be precise, the Sultan of Dumat al-Jandal and the Sultan of Madain Saleh—the court of the Sultan of Agrabah was the more prestigious in all of Arabia. Not to mention the fact that the Princess getting married tomorrow had incited hoards of suitors from all corners of Arabia, her marital prospects generating interest in all of Arabia. There was a rumor that even the Sultan of Madain Saleh—at who's third wedding Dilruba had performed in his court—had also asked for Jasmine's hand for his fourth marriage just for a concrete alliance with the Sultan of Agrabah. Dilruba was curious about that rumor, but somehow, when she saw her cousin she didn't really have the heart to ask her anything like that.

So yes, Dilruba was somewhat excited for the prospects she would have after tomorrow's performance, but she didn't want to speak of it for it made the confusion and heartache of being relations with the Princess and the Sultan more real. Perhaps Dilruba would be able to talk about it once the wedding was all over and done with and she was back in Hegra.

As her words settled, the amusement vanished from Burhan's features then as his ebony eyes sharpened in hers, his dark brows furrowing.

"Your clients can request themes?" He asked, his tone somewhat harder. "You don't just get to do it the way you want to? After you leaving your city and journeying into Agrabah for them?"

Despite herself, Dilruba smiled.

"Clients are allowed to request any theme they want," She spoke, her heart lighter at his offense on her behalf. "Sometimes they even ask for a single tradition of dance, instead of the routines that I usually do. It is no such bother for me, I like being respectful to their wishes."

She turned her eyes back to the peacock feathers on the silver tray on the stall.

"It just gets a little hectic when they ask of changes last minute, when I already thought I had everything prepared," Her voice softened, "But I think it is my fault, I should've asked beforehand. I should've kept on asking before I decided for myself."

Burhan didn't say anything, pausing in a silent contemplation as Dilruba asked the vendor the prices of the feathers.

"I had intended to get fake ones," She talked to the stout man, after he told her his price for a set of twenty tall and vibrant peacock feathers—brilliant and in their prime.

"But these ones are so beautiful."

The image of the peacocks passing away before their feathers had been extracted from them was a welcome relief, and the thought calmed her.

She agreed happily to the reasonable price, deciding on purchasing two sets of twenty each, and the vendor enthusiastically began packing her feathers as Dilruba offered up her coins up front as she threw a pointed glance at the man at her side, watching him look at her in amusement as he shook his head, grinning under the cloth covering his face.

"Farashat rayiea, I fear if I insist to pay this time too I'll drive you off," He uttered, "And then that bitch fate would do no more favors for me if she found out I offended you."

He leaned in close to her then, and Dilruba turned her face away in haste, feeling his hot breath on the side of her face as her heart pounded in her chest. Despite the crowd at this vendor's stall and the people passing on the street, nobody looked at the both of them and how close he was to her. Nobody noticed them, and Dilruba realized that of them two, her savior didn't notice anyone else too.

"Because truth be told, I'd buy this entire stall and everything in it from under this idiot's arse if only I knew it wouldn't offend you."

Dilruba blushed furiously, turning her gaze back to look into eyes, finding that he was still dangerously close to her, his anthracite orbs peering into her green ones with a raging intensity.

"Fuck," He let out then, his voice low and eyes unblinking. "I've never seen or met anyone like you. Your eyes will fucking kill me."

Then, as she gazed into his eyes, she couldn't have ever predicted what he uttered next.

"Tell them I had looked at her only once,
It had been chance, it had been fate,
but I promise I had looked at her only once,
and now people come from afar to look at me,
at every chance, and every turn of fate,
to look at how I'm faring."

Who's poetry was this? She hadn't heard such words before, and hearing his voice melt into his baritone as he took on the correct scale of tone that those who wrote and recited Arabic poetry learned to uphold after years of practice and passion, was startling in a way that Dilruba couldn't comprehend. She hadn't expected it, at present or from him.

"I—," She stumbled on her words, not knowing if she should reflect on the words he had spoken in his recitation or the fact that he could make the recitation at all.

"I'm no official poet," Burhan spoke then, his voice a little hesitant as he shrugged, his intense eyes still fixed in hers. "But I try."

Dilruba blinked. "You—are these your words?"

"Yes," The man uttered. "I was trying to put them together while I was carving your emerald—but it all just fell into place now. I'm a fucking amateur."

"No," Dilruba shook her heart, her knees weak as her heart battered in her chest.

"Your poetry is beautiful," She breathed. "It's exactly how I imagined it to be—"

She cut herself off abruptly, as the man in front of her blinked, his brows furrowing before amusement flashed in his black marble irises.

"You imagined I did poetry?"

Dilruba blushed, looking away as the chatter around her of bargaining and bartering customers did nothing to quell her heat.

"No, I—," She thought of her writing her own prose the night she had met him for the first time and he had saved her life on the streets.

She had written down the name he had used for her. Farashat rayiea. Gorgeous butterfly. She had written a very hasty poem about imagining him as a poet with those words on his lips. An imagining, where she had made him a poet in her mind and had given him a poem of her own making where he had called a woman—her—a butterfly at the end of each verse.

"When you used your nickname for me first," She started, trying to find words to arrange her thoughts and make them more dignified, regardless of how weak she was feeling at present.

"It was so poetic," She met his eyes, "I couldn't help but imagine you a poet, and it turns out that you are one."

Burhan's gaze deepened in hers. "I'm an amateur."

"But somehow," He began, "Looking at you, I feel like I could become the damn master."

Dilruba laughed then, blushing as she did so, and the spell broke slightly. Burhan's eyes flashed amusement at her, and for some reason the fact that he was so dangerously close to her that their arms brushed against each other's and his face was inches from hers, wasn't an alarming feet to her anymore.

"I'm serious, farashat rayiea," He spoke, a deep grin in his voice.

"The sight of you has resurrected my inner poet. Though, if I knew your name I could do so much better."

Dilruba shyly turned to the vendor's stall, taking hold of the packed linen bag full of her set of feathers that was waiting for her. The package was lighter and a breeze to carry, but just when she tried to shift it to her left hand, Burhan hooked an expert finger on the handle and stole the bag from her, carrying it on his left arm along with her newly purchase fabric.

"My mother was a poet," The man let out then as Dilruba's gaze fluttered up at him briefly before she stepped back into the current of the street.

He fell into step swiftly beside her.

"Then I understand where you get it from," The girl mused, keeping her gaze ahead as a smile played on her lips and the exotic bord feathers and charm infested stall fell behind them. "Was she a famous one?"

"Kind of," Burhan stated, his tone suddenly reminiscent, "She was famous where I grew up, but she never managed to get out of the common people's sphere. Nobody up high acknowledged her work."

"Then she was famous," Dilruba affirmed, looking up at her side into the eyes of the man beside her as she thought of how she had never before shopped at a marketplace in the company of a man who had not only insisted upon buying something for her, but was also carrying her bags.

For a moment, Dilruba had forgotten about all of the street dangers she was always aware of. Pickpockets bumping into you and excusing themselves kindly with your jewelry stuffed in their linen pockets, drunk men stumbling right by you extending hands to grope whatever they could before being swallowed by the crowds, mad women following your journey to find out where you live for their thieving husbands' conveniences. Walking the streets of Hegra, Dilruba was a girl wary of all of this even if she knew people avoided her because of her association with the governor, for some people could be bold and defying of their leaders, could they not?

Yet at present, in a city where she was completely defenseless—in the wide sense of that word—she felt as though she was the safest she had ever been, with this man by her side.

"A poet is only famous and worthwhile if their poetry attracts the commons first," She spoke to him now, "For they are people who truly understand want and the feelings that come with it, don't you think so? The people higher up pay for poetry that they request, selfish odes to their own being."

Dilruba exhaled softly. "Once when in Hegra at one of my early performances at the governor's court, I had heard he had called for Ajmal Abadi. Do you recognize the name?"

Burhan nodded once, his eyes in hers. "One of the greatest poets in all of Arabia. He died a few years ago."

"Yes," Dilruba turned her eyes onto the marketplace street ahead. "He was so old when the governor summoned him to his court. Ajmal Abadi was only a few months away from his death, and the governor forced him to write down a hundred verses on his excellence and perform it at his court. I couldn't help but be stricken. The famous poet of lyrical words on life, romance and his own hardships and the common people's sufferings, had been reduced in front of everyone."  

The man next to her didn't respond, and as Dilruba turned to look at him, she found that his eyes were fixed intensely ahead. His black irises shimmering with something fierce as he stared out past the crowds and the stalls and the bargaining and bartering in the air. 

"So you see?" She probed, "Acknowledgement from the higher ups doesn't matter like you think it does. It isn't worth it." 

The girl's gaze dropped to her feet before she too looked at up ahead. "I imagine your mother was a wonderful poetess, and her words were beautiful and expensive, so much so that the higher ups would never have been able to truly afford her." 

A silence descended upon the both of them then, and though it was comfortable, Dilruba wished he would say something. Somehow, she just wanted to keep talking to him. She couldn't think of a single thing else that she wanted to do. Her heart was hung up on his every word, his every motion. 

Just then, Burhan's right hand brushed against her left. His thick fingers were warm as they touched her own. Dilruba almost gasped at the touch. Suddenly she wanted more than anything to intertwine her fingers properly in his because she was desperate to know what it would feel like. 

Then, a donkey cart that they were passing by made too much noise, the donkey braying with madness as his owner struck him too hard. The shock of the disturbance so close to her made Dilruba snatch her hand away, her heart pounding hard in her chest.

"I—," Burhan started when the donkey cart had been left behind, breaking the silence between them. "I can't fucking think of what to say to you right now. If I had said even some of your words to my mother at her death bed, she would've gone with her head held higher." 

Dilruba startled, suddenly realizing that he had talked of his mother in past tense and she hadn't put the pieces together. 

"I'm sorry," She looked at him, "I didn't know." 

He nodded once, fixing his ebony eyes in hers. "I know." 

The girl exhaled, trying to calm herself. "Where did you grow up, Munqidhi?" 

She wanted to keep talking to him, but she didn't want to make him upset. Their was a certain melancholy and guilt in asking someone questions that made them dwell upon what they had lost. Dilruba hoped her latest question did not prompt that feat as much. 

"Here," Burhan spoke then, his tone plain as he raised a hand to gesture around him, his muscles tightening and bulging in his arm at the movement. 

"I grew up in Agrabah." 

Dilruba blinked, turning her eyes away from him. Something seared in her chest then, like a fresh opening made that hurt her. For some reason, she had found herself wishing that he was a traveler like her, belonging from some other place and only present in Agrabah for a momentary obligation like her. But no, he was from here. He was connected to Agrabah like her cousin and uncle. He was from a city she didn't believe she ever wanted to frequent again after performing at her cousin's wedding. Though the governor had called Dilruba's talents a gift for the wedding, he would sure as the day extract payment from the Sultan, and she knew that even if her uncle didn't.

Before she could say anything else to Burhan then, a man dressed in black with his half of his face hidden underneath a dark cloth—the same man who had interrupted hers and her savior's conversation at Hajjar Dagher's abode, was seen walking swiftly over to Burhan as the man materialized from a corner of the street. 

He stopped at her savior's side and spoke low and hasty words in Burhan's ear. Dilruba watched her savior's face harden, and a fierce determination cross his ebony irises as he nodded once. 

Then, Burhan turned to look at her with those same eyes. He gripped the hand his fingers had brushed moments ago, and Dilruba felt it enveloped in his grasp, his warm seeping in her skin. She felt his hard palm, the callouses and his sturdy hold, and she almost had to swallow her gasp. 

He bent a little and pressed the top of her hand to his lips, and Dilruba Badawi's heart hammered to break free from her ribcage. In the middle of the marketplace street, her mind was conscious of people watching, but her heart was only fixated on him. 

"I have to go now, farashat rayiea," He spoke, his words hard in his heavy baritone as he straightened and held her hand for just a few seconds longer, his thumb boldly caressing her knuckles. 

"You will find your purchases in your flat when you return," He turned to look at his man and they exchanged a nod, before the man started walking away and Burhan followed, walking backwards in pursuit just to hold Dilruba's gaze a few minutes longer. 

"I will see you again!" He called his last words, and then spun to catch up with his man, Dilruba's packages held still in his left hand, as she was left on the street in the shock and surprise of everything she was feeling.