Alana
Money is a disastrous thing. It causes people to do things that they would have never imagined themselves doing.
Dressing up as royalty to sell a bracelet is something I never imagined myself doing, yet here I am.
The pathway leading to end of the docks, where traders and merchants set up a huge tent every Friday after Jummah, seems to go on forever. In reality it is only a minutes walk.
Every step forward tightens the fist around my heart, squeezing until my head is light and my breath is short.
Guards with weapons at their sides and readiness in their gazes patrol the area, making sure no 'unworthy' Wadi's try and touch the people here. I'm sure they would kill someone like me without hesitation. Here, a life with no money is a life of no value.
I've traded before, but never with a piece like the one wrapped in the small purse hanging at my waist. Only the upper class and royalty can trade here. If I am caught, I don't think there is going to be a handsome stranger to save my back a second time.
The intolerable heat of the afternoon and the putrid smell of fish doesn't go away, no matter who shows up here in Wadi.
I wipe the perspiration from my forehead and step through the flaps of the tent and into the decorated space. It is lined with wooden stalls that must have been brought in only an hour ago. Unlike the souk in Qadura, everyone here is quiet and poised. The only sounds comes from the band playing stringed instruments at the back of the tent.
There are merchants and traders from all over Ahlam, here to make extra coin from the wealthiest people in Diyar and Qadura. Men and women stand behind the stalls, covered by mountains of spices, rugs or aged books. A few stalls sell mouthwatering foods and desserts, all freshly made. It makes my stomach twist with hunger.
The floors are temporarily covered with maroon rugs. I roll my eyes at the pageantry. I guess only servant and lower class walk on wood.
Walking past each stall, I make sure to hold my chin high and keep my shoulders back. My Abu made sure I was educated when I was young; he hired tutors who taught me nearly everything, including communication which comes majorly from the way someone carries themselves.
There is a jewellery trader near the back of the tent. She speaks with a broad-shouldered man that stands tall with pride. From the arrogance on his aged face, he must think he is made of gold. His shoes are studded with gems that sparkle with every movement of his feet.
The bracelet will blend in perfectly here. The jewellery trader's stall displays the most beautiful and delicate gems. Some are designed into pendants that sit on small chains, others sit alone as engraved and chiselled pieces. With every movement of my eyes, the light inside each gem shifts, creating a moving masterpiece. This woman is not here to mess around.
I step forward and drop the purse in front of her. It lands with a gentle jingle. Neither am I.
The trader, her hair wrapped up in a pink scarf, drags her eyes away from the arrogant-looking man. Her features are gentle, but her eyes are fierce as she assess me.
When she sees my attire—an emerald green silk dress—she glances down at my purse. This dress is the only thing of value that I own. It was gifted to my mother before I was born, and she instructed me to sell it for food, but I chose to keep it. It is a treasure to me; something to remember life isn't all bad.
The trader gently opens the purse and tips the stolen piece onto her open palm. Along with the other gems in her stall, the ruby gleams and glitters.
"Where did you get a piece like that, girl?" The man with fancy shoes questions me. His voice is firm and holds a sense of power. He must be royalty, but he wears no symbols of royalty—no kiffyeh or royal colours or weapons engraved with royal markings.
Then again, I don't wear any either. He might be a fake, just like me.
In order for my act to be believable, I tilt my head and glower at him. "It was a gift. And don't call me girl."
"Then what should I call you?"
Panic surrounds me. I keep my feet rooted to the ground. Avoiding shifting and fidgeting will help me come off as confident. Squaring my shoulders, I say, "I am a relative of the royal house of Diyar." It is a safer bet to claim relation to Diyar, since it is further away and he may not know of anyone from there.
"What do you want to trade for this?" the woman questions. She eyes the jewel and, from the spark in her eyes that she tries to conceal, I know she wants it.
"One hundred coins." It is asking for a lot, but it is a fair price. I tilt my head and watch her for any reaction.
She gives none, except the slightest nod of her head. "Eighty."
That is way more than I expected to walk out of here with. It would feed me and my mama for three months or more.
In the mean time, I could get a job and save up for a better home or—
"Wait," the older man asks. I want to grab the purse of eighty coins from the woman and run, because I'm so close. "What do you plan to do with the money?" His assessing eyes watch me, reminding me of the eyes of a serpent.
"Who are you to question me?" I ask. My tone is cutting. I need to act as if I would shout 'off with his head!' or whatever royal people do in their free time.
He keeps his mouth shut. I'd assume most royals would be quick to give out their titles and how much power they have. His silence holds much more weight.
Before I can turn back to the woman, the jingle of coins comes from the strange man and he holds out the bag to me. "One hundred coins. If you can attend tonight's maʼduba and court my son, I will add an extra four hundred." A maʼduba is a formal banquet attended by the wealthiest people in all four cities.
I almost do not want to ask. "Who is your son?"
"Nawaz ibn Barak." The crowned prince of Qadura. At the mention of his son, his posture shifts and a smile tugs at his lips, causing wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He now carries a different kind of pride to the one he held when I first laid eyes on him—the pride of a father.
"I . . ." My head is shaking no before my lips are saying it. There is no ways I could court a prince. That is the stuff that happens in fairytales, to girls who are honest and honourable. I am neither of those.
He tells me to listen. "Estme' lee, you do not have to respond. Take some time, consider it, and if you choose to come then you could make more money to do whatever you planned to do with that eighty." It sounds too good to be true. He turns and walks off, his silk thobe subtly reflecting the lights inside the tent.
"Do you still want to sell this bracelet?" The woman asks.
There is no way I could return it to that lady I took it from. "Yes, shukran." I could give the coins to someone else in Wadi. There is no shortage of people desperate for even a single coin.
She pushes the bag of coins towards me, and I lift it. The weight of the second purse in my arms makes me feel wary. How could I walk around with this amount in Wadi?
"'Ana fi wade sii'." أنا في وضع سيء. I am so screwed.
~~*~~
I'm really enjoying writing this book. I'm so excited for the two MCs to meet because it's going to be an enemies to lovers which is my favourite.
T w i t t e r : xPineappleGirlx
I n s t a g r a m : laylaawrites
Y o u t u b e : xThePineappleGirlx
Lots of love and jelly tots - xThePineappleGirlx
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One Night
Teen Fiction[Arabian Nights meets Atlantis] She wants to save her family. He wants to save his people. After selling all of her belongings to survive, Alara has nothing-except a burn scar left by her unknown father and a sick mother she has to take care of. In...
