by Ana Adams
“Father, we’ve arrived.” Anwar spoke softly, not wanting to jar his resting father. Diaab strode to the bedside, standing stiffly over his brother.
The king stirred, clearing his throat as he roused. His eyes fluttered open and then shut again.
“I’ve brought someone to meet you.” Anwar gnawed at his lip, willing his father awake. He needed full clarity of mind to process the news. Rawnie’s face creased with concern at his side.
The king stirred again and mumbled, “Help me up.” Diaab propped him up, placing pillows behind his back. His eyes stayed open this time, dim eyes assessing the audience.
“Father.” Anwar kneeled at the bedside, reaching for his hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit.” The king coughed a few times. “Each time I think it’s getting better, it gets worse.”
“The best doctors are working with you. They’re figuring it out.” Anwar squeezed his father’s hand, emotion clogging his throat for a moment. He spent his days trying to avoid facing these emotions; it was why partying had been such a convenient distraction. It helped him forget about the pain of losing his father. The fear of what lay after.
The king blinked up at Rawnie. “And who is this?”
Anwar brought Rawnie up to stand beside him. She bowed as instructed. “This is Rawnie Badzo. She and I met over a year ago. And we’re going to marry.”
The silence that settled over the room was so loud Anwar thought he’d gone deaf. He swallowed hard and put his arm around Rawnie’s shoulders, cinching her tight. “Father, please say something.”
“Perhaps he should not say anything quite yet.” Diaab’s steely voice grated on Anwar’s nerves. “Brother, let me also inform you that this woman has brought with her a living heir to the throne.”
The king coughed into his fist, violently racked by spasms. When he calmed, he looked Anwar in the face. “You’ve made a grandchild, have you?”
Anwar jerked his head into a nod.
The king let a rattly sigh, gaze drifting over to Rawnie. “You’re a pretty thing. And from what lineage are you? I’m not familiar with the Badzos.” The name tumbled off his tongue awkwardly.
“I-I’m not from any lineage, sir.” Her voice came out smaller and more unsure than he’d ever heard from her. The pain on her face reminded him of her abandonment; if she’d had a lineage before, she might not claim it after being cast out.
The silence returned again; Diaab slunk closer to his brother, placing a hand on his thin shoulder.
“I should remind you, brother, that the two do plan to marry, per royal decree.”
The king grunted. “Even near my deathbed, Anwar, you do not fail to surprise.”
Anwar forced a smile. “What else is my job as your only son?”
“When shall I meet the heir?”
Relief trickled through him. “As soon as you wish, father.”
The three bowed to the king and made their way to the door. Anwar stepped aside to let Rawnie pass. Before he stepped outside the chambers, his father called to him.
“Anwar, stay behind a moment.”
Anwar nodded and shut the door quietly, the same trepidation appearing inside his belly as though he were ten years old and about to be scolded behind closed doors.
At his bedside, Anwar kneeled.
“I don’t have much longer.” Another rattling sigh escaped him. Anwar clasped his weathered hand in his; he’d grown so frail so quickly, it was like he’d shrunk to half the man. “The end is near, boy. I feel it.”
“Please don’t say that.” Anwar stared at his thumb, willing the tears to dry up.
“I’ve wanted so many things for you in my life. Some were a pipe dream—like an interest in politics.” The king hefted with laughter that turned into a cough. “But one thing I always wanted for you was a family.”
“I’ve always had a family.”
“A family of your own, boy.” The king shifted in his bed. “Life doesn’t make sense until you have one of your own. I’ve seen you drift around, aimless and distracted, for too long. You’ve got to make this work, and make it your priority.”
“I will.”
“You’ll know more of what I mean. I only wish your mother could be here to see this.” A smile graced his lips. “She’s gorgeous, you know. Your young wife.”
“I know.” Anwar couldn’t fight the smile. “And so is our son.”
“But the wedding must be quick.” He coughed again. “Each day is worse than the last. I want to see you wed.”
“Of course.” Panic cinched his chest. “I’ll make it as soon as possible.”
“Within the week.”
Anwar nodded, gears turning in his head, to-do lists leaping to life. “Yes, father.” He kissed his father’s hand and let himself out of the chamber. On the other side, Rawnie waited alone, wringing her hands.
“Has Diaab gone?”
“Yes. He’s such a sour puss.” She reached for his hand. “Did it go well?”
“As well as it could, I suppose.” He smiled down at her, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Tenderness swelled inside him; when he looked at her, it felt like looking at his favorite piece of art, something familiar and captivating.
“What do we do now?”
“We must plan the wedding.” He led her down the hallway toward the study. “And it must take place immediately. Later today would be soon enough—but I don’t think we can pull it off so quickly.”
She fell behind him, brows furrowed. “Should I find a dress?”
“Yes. We must find that immediately. I’ll call my assistants, plus Diaab and Ra’ees will take care of some other tasks. We’ll shoot for tomorrow, but no later than the day after.” He lifted a brow, pushing into the study. “Sound like a plan?”
“Sounds like we have a hell of a show to pull off and no time to prepare.” She shrugged. “Won’t be the first time I’ve done it.”
Anwar grinned, excitement licking through his veins. First a child, then a fiancée, now a wedding. He’d never imagined any of them could ever be so thrilling.
***
The next day passed in a blur for Rawnie. Fatin stayed anchored to her side as they handled a list of tasks sent their way: selecting flowers, tapestries, and linen combinations, as well as limited input for decorative elements to adorn the main hallway. Diaab and Anwar handled sending out the notice to family and the community. Horns blared throughout the city center as the traditional announcement was made to the citizens. Maids and servants scurried through the house at high speed as menu arrangements were solidified and the great hall was cleared out to accommodate the seating and procession.
Rawnie was whisked into town with a female assistant, Fatin staying behind with Anwar Jr. since the prince thought it best to present the baby to the public at the wedding but not before. Anwar had ordered her a new phone after meeting the king, and she sent photos with question marks to Fatin as she tried on elegant, laden gowns, far more luxurious and expensive than she’d ever dared dream of her entire life. The taffeta and lace made her head spin; these were designs some poor Romani girls never got a chance to witness in lifetime.
By the end of the first full day of wedding preparations, Rawnie had her dress and shoes purchased. She’d opted for an elegant yet modern trumpet-style dress, cinched at the waist with cream silk, the entire bustier dotted with white diamonds and glittering jewels.
When she returned to the castle in the evening the day before the wedding, Anwar was still out on the town running errands. Rawnie was a bundle of nerves and excitement, swallowing panic and elation on an alternating basis.
Throughout it all, she desperately wanted to share the news with her family. She’d have made the trek even if they hadn’t cast her out—Anwar Jr. knowing his father was that important to her—but would she have agreed to marry the prince? She reached for the phone, fingers hesitating over the buttons.
Wandering through the halls, she dialed the number that would nev
er leave her memory. She held her breath as it rang, the connection crackly as it spanned hundreds of miles.
The deep rumble of her father’s voice answered. “Badzo Family Circus.”
She swallowed a knot. “Father.”
There was a pause, and then the line was dead. Tears sprang to her eyes and she leaned against the wall a moment, pain slicing through her. The wounds were still fresh; maybe they would never heal. But it reinforced one thing: she would never do the same to her child.
Hurrying to her chambers, she scooped up Anwar Jr. before Fatin could even say hello. Burying him to her chest, she allowed a few tears to escape against the crown of his head before straightening.
“You have had quite a day, I imagine,” Fatin said.
“It’s been a roller coaster for sure.” She sank into the chair, Anwar Jr. seeking her nipple. “And there’s still so much left to do.”
“Most people don’t arrange weddings in two days’ time.” Fatin sent her a knowing look. “Yet here we are. While you were out I sent over the orders for the flowers and the linens. The seamstress stopped by to measure the boy for his gown. And apparently, the cakes were started an hour ago.”
“Excellent.” Rawnie lightly rocked the boy as he suckled.
“Family members will be arriving soon for the henna ceremony,” Fatin advised.
Rawnie’s eyes lit up. “The ceremony! I forgot all about it. What will they do?”
“It’s a well-wishing ceremony is all. They’ll paint you, along with the female guests, as a way to send you off into a happy marriage.”
“And will you be there?”
“If you want me.” Fatin smiled warmly.
“You’re the closest thing to a mother that I have now.”
“And you’re the long-lost daughter I never had.” Fatin reached out to stroke her cheek; the two had bonded quickly and strongly. Like they’d been destined to become something of a family.
A few hours later, Rawnie was summoned to appear in one of the living rooms downstairs, where loud group of female family members awaited her. As soon as she stepped inside, decked out in a new, brightly colored dress she’d picked up from town that day, all heads turned to look at her. Bright eyes took her in, shades of green and blue that reflected the same stark genes that inhabited Anwar.
And then they descended upon her—coos and gasps and laughter as the group of women came at her, arms out, kisses on the cheek, a flurry of welcome and introduction so loud that Rawnie couldn’t keep any of it straight.
“Are you the fiancée? We never thought we’d see the day.”
“Anwar speaks highly of you, but do you speak highly of him?”
“Can you perform a trick for us? We hear you’re so good at tricks.”
“Your hair is stunning! Have you considered the new keratin treatments?”
“Goodness, look at your figure—I’d kill for this waistline.”
Rawnie was swept into the babbling brook of ladies and led to a rug where a henna artist sat. As she sat at the artist’s side, the ladies chatted her up. There was Diaab’s wife, who looked to be the sternest of the bunch; several cousins and cousin’s wives who had traveled from the countryside to be there; and a few wives of government advisors who were practically family, they explained.
The evening passed in a surprising blur; by the time she returned to her bedchambers, her arms decorated with fascinating red swirls and dots, she felt like she’d been picked up by a tornado and spit out on the other side of the world.
Reaching for her phone to see what she’d missed in her absence, several texts from Anwar greeted her. Some were business—“The imam will arrive at four, so you must be ready by three”—and others followed the train of thought that had haunted her since the day before—“I can’t stop thinking about your kisses.”
“Will I see you tonight?” She sent the text as quickly as she could.
“We can’t see each other until the ceremony. It’s tradition.”
“Not even if you meet me beneath my balcony and I slide down on my silks and we keep our eyes closed for a kiss?” She smiled as she pressed ‘send.’
“Tempting offer. Though I wouldn’t be able to promise only a kiss.”
She shivered, biting back a grin. Though the entire day promised to be interesting and memorable, she was most excited for the entire affair to be done and over with, so she could relax and get to the important part: the bedroom.
Since Anwar Jr.’s birth, she’d resigned herself to the fact that love or romance might not grace her life for a long time, not expecting the very father of her son to become a presence in her life, or still light her up in the same way as he had at the beginning.
Rawnie settled Anwar Jr. into bed, and then spent some time stretching and hanging around before getting into bed for the last night as an unmarried, Romani, wandering, single mother.
Chapter Eight
From the moment Rawnie opened her eyes at seven a.m. the next day, each passing moment felt like a surprised gasp. From hair and makeup preparation to last-minute arrangements to the nail-biting anxiety that clawed at her as the truth sunk in—you’re marrying a royal, this is your life now, there’s no backing out—time whizzed by until three p.m. arrived and she was standing in the Great Hall, veiled and in white, Fatin bouncing a whiny Anwar Jr. at her side.
Her nerves were so frazzled she could barely speak. This wasn’t her territory. She didn’t belong here. “Fatin, what if I made a mistake?”
Fatin smiled knowingly. “Everyone thinks this an hour before they marry.”
“No, I mean…what if I shouldn’t have brought my son here?” She looked around, lowering her voice. “I mean, shouldn’t I have just stuck to the road? Traveling and working, like I’ve always done?”
“Honey.” Fatin placed a firm, warm hand on her shoulder. “You’ve made the right choice. The boy needs his father. Remember what we talked about, what you told me? Don’t fret, my sweet.” She brushed rough knuckles against her cheek, then pinched it. “Your groom is almost here.”
Rawnie gnawed at her cheek, each burst of noise or peal of laughter yanking at her attention, like a dog surrounded by fireworks. She drew shaky breaths.
Trumpet music began, and she was ushered to a small hallway where it was quieter, more reverent. Someone directed her to a small room at the end; inside, Anwar stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, his father and Diaab seated off to the side.
His eyes lit up when he saw her; she grinned and stepped inside, taking his offered hand. They approached a small table where an imam sat, papers spread out, two pens at the ready.
The imam conducted a small ceremony, during which Anwar and his family repeated and murmured responses at the appropriate times. A blessing was made, and then the bride and groom sat to sign the papers.
Anwar reached for her hand beneath the table before they signed, smiling warmly at her. Emotions clogged her throat; it was too much to take in. Bliss mingled with fascination and fear. What the hell are you doing? She signed at the X, watching as Anwar finished his signature with a flourish. Hers looked meek and frail by comparison.
The imam made a final blessing, and they were ushered through a gilded set of doors that opened to a ballroom, where a crowd of guests cheered as they entered. Diaab helped the king follow in their wake, and balloons filled the room alongside applause. Traditional music sprang to life, and Anwar swept her into a dance. They glided around the room, Rawnie laughing as he led the way.
“My new wife.” His face shone with more joy than she’d ever seen. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’m in a storybook.” Tears pressed at her eyes. Others joined them on the dancefloor. “Is this real?”
“I think so. I suppose we’ll know later, once we’re alone.” He brushed his nose against hers, making her breath catch in her throat. Maybe someday, if her parents ever agreed to speak to her again, she could show them the beautiful photos of this evening, the dress she wore, t
he way the prince looked into her eyes as they danced for the first time. Would they ever care? The joy of the evening was marred by this sadness.
From the sidelines, Fatin waved, her normally messy graying hair swept into an elegant bun. Tears pricked her eyes again.
This was her family now. And this one would be hers for life.
***
Anwar fumbled with the latch on his bedchamber, squinting to see the knob. Rawnie pawed at him from behind, pushing at his hips, urging him to get inside.
They’d spent hours in revelry, wine and beer flowing nonstop—much to the imam’s disapproval—countless appetizers being sampled and passed around as the family and community celebrated the surprisingly joyous occasion. The king’s smile, permanent and full, still burned in Anwar’s mind. Father is happy…I have a wife and a child.
But doubt nagged at him—could he truly be the father and king that was required of him? The thought lurked like a rat in his mind, scurrying so quickly he barely saw it, but it was there. Waiting.
Rawnie murmured something into his ear, pressing her body against his. “Get inside, you prince.”
He laughed, finally freeing the latch from its half-broken lock. He could focus on doubts later. Now he had only one task ahead of him. The door swung open and he flipped on the lights, leading her into the room with a reverent gaze.
His eyes shivered over her for the thousandth time that evening. Each time her saw her, she glowed brighter, more beautiful. “Do you know the things I want to do to you? My wife.”
Her eyes flashed, hands smoothing over the crisp black lapels of his tuxedo jacket. “Why don’t you show me?”
Their lips crashed together, a hungry, desperate kiss emerging. They’d played the respectable, demure couple the entire night, not engaging in much more than brushing each other’s hands. The desire had grown unbearable at times; like he might flip her over the food table and have his way in front of the royal court.
