[AMAL POV]
The morning sun filtered through the gossamer curtains of the Rose Garden pavilion, casting delicate shadows across the marble floor where the kingdom's most distinguished ladies gathered for their weekly tea circle. I adjusted my powder-blue silk gown—carefully chosen to complement the emerald necklace that had become my constant companion—and took my place among the semi-circle of cushioned chairs.
Lady Fatima presided over the gathering with the natural authority of a woman who had been hosting such events for three decades. Her silver hair was swept into an elegant chignon, and her dark eyes missed nothing as she surveyed the assembled wives, daughters, and sisters of the kingdom's most powerful men.
"Princess Amal," she said warmly, though I caught the subtle assessment in her gaze. "How lovely to see you joining us again. That shade of blue is quite becoming on you."
"Thank you, Lady Fatima." I inclined my head gracefully, the gesture as practiced as breathing now. "I've been looking forward to this morning all week."
The lie came easily. In truth, these gatherings had become both my lifeline and my torment—a glimpse into the world I was desperately trying to master, filled with women who seemed to navigate their roles with an effortless grace I could only dream of possessing.
"Well then," Lady Fatima settled into her chair with a rustle of burgundy silk, "shall we begin with the usual pleasantries, or does someone have something more... pressing to discuss?"
A ripple of anticipation moved through the circle. Lady Zahra, the young wife of Lord Rashid's eldest son, practically vibrated with barely contained excitement. Her hand fluttered to the spectacular ruby collar adorning her throat—a piece I'd never seen before.
"If I may," she began, her voice pitched to carry just the right note of modest pride, "I simply had to share my gratitude for the advice you ladies gave me last month about presentation being everything."
"Oh?" Lady Fatima's eyebrows rose with polite interest. "And what brought about this revelation?"
"Well," Zahra's cheeks flushed prettily, "I took Princess Mahra's suggestion about the importance of... anticipating one's husband's needs. I've been having his favorite mint tea prepared exactly as he likes it—with just a touch of honey and a sprig of fresh herbs from our private garden—and presenting it to him personally each morning before he meets with his advisors."
Princess Mahra's, the eldest of the King's daughters and a woman whose marriage to the Duke of Qadesh was legendary in its harmony, smiled with the satisfaction of a teacher whose student had learned well.
"And the results?" she prompted gently.
"Magnificent," Zahra breathed, her fingers tracing the rubies at her throat. "Just yesterday, he surprised me with this collar. It belonged to his grandmother—a family heirloom I never thought..." She trailed off, overwhelmed by her own success.
A chorus of admiring murmurs rose from the circle. I found myself leaning forward slightly, hungry for any detail that might help me understand the mysterious alchemy these women seemed to possess.
"The presentation of tea is indeed crucial," agreed Lady Jamila, the wife of the kingdom's chief treasurer. "But I've found that the real secret lies in the details. The way you move, the way you speak, even the way you arrange yourself when you serve. Men appreciate grace, but they're attracted to intention."
"Intention?" I couldn't help but ask.
"The subtle art of showing that your husband's comfort is your primary concern," Lady Jamila explained, her tone taking on the quality of a master craftsman discussing technique. "When I bring Hassan his evening refreshments, I don't simply set them down. I arrange them just so—his favorite glass in exactly the right position, the small plate of dates arranged in a perfect circle, the napkin folded precisely as he prefers. It tells him that he is worth my attention to detail."
"And Hassan notices these things?" The question came from Lady Noor, whose husband was known for his scholarly disposition.
"Oh, my dear," Lady Jamila laughed softly, "they always notice. They may not comment, but they notice. Hassan has begun asking specifically for me to bring his evening tea. His steward offered to take over the duty, but he refused."
I absorbed this information like a desert absorbing rain. Details. Intention. The presentation of service as an art form.
"Speaking of presentation," Princess Mahra interjected with a knowing smile, "I trust everyone has been maintaining their... aromatic disciplines?"
A few soft laughs rippled through the group. I felt my cheeks warm slightly, but I was too invested in learning to let embarrassment silence me.
"Aromatic disciplines?" I ventured.
"The importance of pleasant scents, my dear," Lady Fatima explained maternally. "A wife should always carry with her the memory of beauty. Fresh rose water in the morning, a touch of jasmine oil at the pulse points, and in the evening..." She paused meaningfully.
"Bukhoor," Lady Zahra finished with a dreamy sigh. "The woodsmoke incense that clings to your hair and clothes. My husband says it's like being embraced by the very essence of femininity."
"I've taken to burning frankincense in our private chambers every afternoon," added Lady Jamila. "By the time Hassan returns from his duties, the entire space speaks of tranquility and care."
I made mental notes of each detail, cataloging them like a scholar preparing for the most important examination of her life. Rose water. Jasmine oil. Bukhoor. Frankincense. The language of scent as a form of communication.
"Of course," Princess Mahra continued, "fragrance is only effective when combined with other forms of attention. The way you greet your husband when he returns home, the way you inquire about his day, the way you listen to his concerns..."
"The way you make him feel like the most important person in your world," Lady Noor added softly. "Even when he's discussing matters that seem terribly dull."
"Especially then," Lady Fatima corrected with a slight smile. "Any woman can be charming when entertained. A skilled wife finds ways to be engaged even during discussions of grain taxes and trade agreements."
The conversation continued, weaving through topics that ranged from the proper way to manage household staff to the subtle art of wearing jewelry that complemented rather than competed with one's husband's status. I listened with the desperate attention of a drowning woman reaching for a rope.
"My dear Princess," Lady Fatima said eventually, turning her attention fully to me, "you've been wonderfully attentive this morning. I hope you've found our little discussion helpful?"
"Extremely," I replied honestly. "I confess, I'm still learning to navigate... the complexities of married life."
"We all are, darling," Princess Mahra said kindly. "Even those of us who've been married for decades. The key is to remember that a successful marriage is like tending a garden—it requires constant, gentle care."
"And the rewards," Lady Zahra added, touching her ruby collar again, "are beyond measure."
As the gathering began to disperse, I found myself walking alongside Lady Jamila toward the palace proper. She was a woman of perhaps forty, with the kind of serene confidence that came from years of successful marriage management.
"Princess Amal," she said quietly, "if I may offer a word of advice?"
I nodded eagerly.
"The ladies spoke truly about the importance of service and attention to detail. But remember—the goal isn't to become invisible in your efforts to please. The goal is to become indispensable."
"I'm not sure I understand the difference."
"An invisible wife is taken for granted. An indispensable wife is treasured." She paused at the branching corridor that led to her family's quarters. "Find the balance, my dear. Make yourself essential to his comfort, but never forget that you are a princess in your own right."
That afternoon, I dismissed my ladies-in-waiting early and set about transforming our chambers into a sanctuary of the kind the noble ladies had described. I instructed the servants to bring fresh roses for the vases, replaced the standard oil lamps with ones that burned with a warmer, more intimate light, and carefully arranged a selection of Idris's favorite sweets on a silver tray.
The frankincense was more challenging. I had to send word to the palace's incense master to procure the specific blend that Lady Jamila had mentioned. When it arrived, I burned it carefully in a small brass brazier, watching the fragrant smoke curl through the air and settle into the fabric of the curtains and cushions.
By the time I heard Idris's footsteps in the corridor, I had bathed in rose water, applied jasmine oil to my wrists and behind my ears, and changed into a gown of deep sapphire silk that I knew complemented my complexion. I positioned myself near the window, a book of poetry open in my lap, trying to achieve the picture of serene domestic contentment that seemed to come so naturally to the other wives.
"Good evening," I said softly as he entered, rising with what I hoped was graceful fluidity.
He paused in the doorway, and I saw his eyes take in the changed atmosphere of the room. His expression was unreadable, but I caught a slight tightening around his eyes that might have been confusion.
"Evening," he replied, moving toward his desk with characteristic efficiency.
"I thought you might enjoy some refreshment," I said, gesturing toward the tray of sweets. "I had the kitchen prepare those honey-almond pastries you mentioned enjoying."
"Thank you." He didn't look at the tray, but I saw him glance at me with that same puzzled expression. "That was... thoughtful."
I moved to the side table where I'd prepared his evening tea exactly as I'd observed his personal servant doing it—the correct temperature, the precise amount of mint, the small glass perfectly positioned on its silver tray.
"Your tea," I said, offering it with both hands in what I hoped was the gesture of respectful service I'd witnessed among the other wives.
He accepted it, but instead of the warm appreciation I'd expected, I saw something that looked almost like discomfort cross his features.
"Amal," he said carefully, "is everything alright?"
The question caught me off guard. "Of course. Why would you ask?"
"You seem... different tonight. More..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Formal."
Formal. The word hit me like a slap. I had been trying to be perfect, and instead I had become formal.
"I was simply trying to ensure your comfort," I said, fighting to keep the disappointment from my voice.
"I see." He set down the tea and studied me with those dark eyes that seemed to catalog every micro-expression. "And this new attention to my comfort—where did it come from?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. I couldn't very well admit that I'd been taking lessons in wifehood from the other noble ladies. "I thought... I thought it might be nice to take better care of you."
"Better care." He repeated the words as if testing their flavor. "As opposed to the inadequate care I've been receiving?"
"No! No, that's not what I meant at all." I was floundering now, the careful poise I'd practiced crumbling under his steady gaze. "I simply wanted to..."
"To what?"
"To please you," I admitted quietly.
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or something more complex. He was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentler but no less direct.
"Amal, you don't need to perform for me. The service you're describing—it's what I expect from my maids, not from my wife."
The words were meant to be reassuring, but they felt like arrows finding their mark. I had been trying to become the kind of wife the other ladies described, but I had succeeded only in making myself seem like particularly attentive household maid.
"I understand," I said, though I didn't. I didn't understand anything anymore.
The morning of the Harvest Festival dawned crisp and clear, with the kind of golden light that made everything seem possible. I had spent the previous night preparing with the meticulous care of a warrior donning armor for battle. Every detail had been considered, every element perfected according to the wisdom I'd gleaned from the noble ladies' circle.
I had bathed in rose water infused with jasmine petals, applied kohl to my eyes with the precision of a master calligrapher, and selected a gown of deep emerald silk that complemented both my skin tone and the necklace that had become my constant companion. My hair was arranged in an elaborate style that had taken my ladies-in-waiting nearly two hours to perfect, with strands of pearls woven through the dark waves like captured moonlight.
The bukhoor I had burned in our chambers the night before still clung to my hair and clothes, creating an aura of feminine mystique that I hoped would finally break through Idris's wall of polite indifference. I had even practiced my movements in the mirror, ensuring that every gesture carried the grace and intention that Lady Jamila had described.
Today, I told myself as I made my way to the palace's great courtyard, today would be different. Today I would be the kind of wife who inspired devotion rather than duty.
The Harvest Festival was one of the kingdom's most important celebrations, a time when the royal family mingled with nobles and commoners alike to give thanks for the year's abundance. The courtyard had been transformed into a wonderland of silk banners, flower garlands, and long tables groaning under the weight of the season's finest offerings.
I found Idris near the center of the celebration, resplendent in robes of deep blue and gold that emphasized his natural authority. He was speaking with a group of eastern lords, his posture relaxed but alert, his voice carrying the easy confidence of a man comfortable in his role.
When he saw me approaching, I caught the brief flicker of assessment in his eyes—the same look he might give a piece of architecture or a well-executed military formation. Appreciation for craftsmanship, perhaps, but nothing warmer.
"Your Highness," I said softly, offering him a smile that I hoped conveyed both respect and subtle invitation.
"Princess Amal." He inclined his head formally. "You look lovely."
Lovely. The word was as empty as morning mist. I had been hoping for something more—desire, perhaps, or at least genuine admiration. Instead, I received the kind of compliment he might offer to any appropriately dressed woman at court.
"Thank you," I replied, fighting to keep the disappointment from my voice. "The festival is beautiful this year."
"Indeed." He turned back to his conversation with the lords, and I found myself standing slightly behind him, smiling at nothing, trying to look like the supportive wife while feeling utterly invisible.
The morning progressed in a blur of formal presentations and carefully choreographed interactions. I watched other couples navigate the social landscape with ease—Lady Zahra and her husband moving together like dancers who had long since mastered their steps, Princess Mahra and her duke sharing private smiles that spoke of genuine affection, Lady Jamila and her treasurer husband communicating with subtle glances and gentle touches.
I tried to emulate their behavior, moving closer to Idris during conversations, offering small gestures of attention—straightening his collar when it didn't need straightening, bringing him refreshments when he wasn't thirsty, attempting to catch his eye with looks that I hoped conveyed devotion.
But instead of the warm response I'd observed between other couples, I received only polite acknowledgment and, increasingly, a tension in his shoulders that suggested my attentions were becoming more burden than blessing.
"Princess," Lady Fatima appeared at my elbow during a lull in the formal proceedings, "you seem rather... focused today."
"I'm simply trying to be attentive to my husband's needs," I replied, watching Idris as he discussed grain imports with the Minister of Agriculture.
"Ah." There was something in her tone that made me look at her more carefully. "And how is that working for you?"
Before I could answer, a commotion near the main entrance drew our attention. A group of visiting nobles from the northern provinces had arrived, and among them was a woman who commanded immediate attention without seeming to try.