This Woven Kingdom by Tahereh Mafi

a sharp knock at the back door.
    Alizeh straightened so quickly she nearly dropped the kettle. She tossed another glance around the unusually empty kitchen—there was so much work to be done today that the servants were granted no breaks—and snatched the hidden parcel from the pantry.
    Carefully, she opened the door.
    Alizeh blinked, then stepped back. It was Mrs. Sana staring at her, the bespectacled housekeeper from the Lojjan ambassador’s estate.
    Stunned as she was, Alizeh nearly forgot to curtsy.
    Housekeepers, who ruled their own little kingdoms, were not considered servants and did not wear snodas; as a result, they were due a level of respect that Alizeh was still learning. She bobbed a curtsy, then straightened.
    â€œGood afternoon, ma’am. How may I help you?”
    Mrs. Sana said nothing, only held out a small purse, which Alizeh accepted in her injured hand. She felt the weight of the coin at once.
    â€œ Oh ,” she breathed.
    â€œMiss Huda was very pleased with the dress and would like to engage your services again.”
    Alizeh went suddenly solid.
    She dared not speak, dared not move for fear of ruining the moment. She tried to remember if she’d fallen asleep, if perhaps she was dreaming.
    Mrs. Sana rapped her knuckles on the doorframe. “You’ve gone deaf, girl?”
    Alizeh took a sharp breath. “No, ma’am,” she said quickly. “That is—yes, ma’am. I would— It would be my honor.”
    Mrs. Sana sniffed at her, in a way that was becoming familiar. “Yes. I daresay it would be. And you’ll remember it the next time you speak ill of my mistress. She meant to send her maid, but I insisted on delivering the message myself. You understand my meaning.”
    Alizeh lowered her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
    â€œMiss Huda will need at least four gowns for the upcoming festivities, and one showpiece for the ball.”
    Alizeh’s head snapped up. She did not know to which upcoming festivities Mrs. Sana was referring, and she did not care. “Miss Huda wants five gowns?”
    â€œWill that be a problem?”
    Alizeh heard a roar in her ears, experienced a terrifying disorientation. She worried she might cry, and she did not think she’d forgive herself if she did. “No, ma’am,” she managed to say. “No problem at all.”
    â€œGood. You may come to the house tomorrow at nine in the evening.” A heavy pause. “After you finish your shift here.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am. Thank you. Thank you for und—”
    â€œNine o’clock sharp, you understand?” And Mrs. Sana was gone, the door slamming shut behind her.
    Alizeh could hold it in no longer. She slid to the floor and sobbed.

Nine

    IN THE MILKY EYE OF the moon the silhouettes of passersby merged into one gelatinous mass rumbling with sound; raucous cries rang out, laughter tearing through trees, lamplight flickering as people stumbled through the streets. The night was pure madness.
    Alizeh suppressed a shudder.
    It disturbed her always to be enveloped by the dark, for it brought to life a fear of blindness she could not fully rationalize. Her ancestors had once been sentenced to an existence without light or heat—she knew this, yes—but that she should carry the fear still struck her as most peculiar. Worse, it seemed her strange fate to be tethered always to the dark, for these days she moved most freely through the world only in the absence of daylight, when the yoke of duty had been removed.
    Alizeh had emerged from Baz House long after the sun had been extinguished, and though the good news of more work for Miss Huda had done a great deal to buoy her spirits, Alizeh was burdened anew by the state of her hands. The day’s tasks had torn fresh wounds into her already split palms, and the strips of fabric she’d carefully wrapped around her injuries had grown damp and heavy with blood. Alizeh,