Nakia Meets The King

Discomfort made its way into Nakia's consciousness. At first, she thought it was just the cold marble floor that she slept on, and tried stay sleep but eventually, she recognized it as the need to relieve herself and allowed herself to awaken fully. She started to move, but froze. How long had it been since she'd used the chamber pot without the princess' permission? Two years? Three? Judging by the snores coming from the hammock above her, Ahmose was asleep.

After a minute, Nakia decided it was either use the chamber pot or burst all over the floor, and she'd be punished for either. She crawled carefully out from under the hammock. Awakening Ahmose would mean punishment, too. Hunger clawed at Nakia's ribs, but she was so used to ignoring it that she barely noticed.

She made her way over to the chamber pot and when she re-emerged from behind the screen a moment later, Ahmose was still asleep. Ahmose seemed to live to monitor and punish Nakia, so it was a little surprising that the princess hadn’t stirred. 

The lattice window high in the wall caught the pale glow and broke it into thin patterns that fell across the floor. The marble gleamed softly where the light touched it, as if a shallow pool of water had spread across the room while she slept. Between those bands of silver, the shadows were deep and blue.

Ahmose’s hammock hung above the floor like a drifting cloud of linen. The fabric stirred faintly with the princess’s breathing, the cords creaking almost too softly to hear. In the shifting light, the tassels along its edges swayed like quiet pendulums. Ahmose lay inside it—one arm draped over the edge, dark hair spilling downward, her mouth slightly open as she snored.

Nakia was so accustomed to seeing Ahmose towering above her in a righteous rage, that it was easy to forget that she was barely more than a child, only a few years older than Nakia. Almost embarrassed at the thought, Nakia looked away.

The painted walls looked different at night. During the day the lotus flowers and papyrus reeds were bright and cheerful, but now they seemed to float in the dimness, pale blossoms rising from dark water. A painted falcon near the ceiling stretched its wings across the plaster, its eye catching a glimmer of moonlight so that it appeared to watch the room.

The air smelled faintly of lotus oil and burned incense from earlier in the evening. Beneath it lingered the cooler scent of stone and linen.

A low table stood near the hammock, scattered with the princess’s things: a comb carved from ivory, a small jar of perfume, bracelets coiled like sleeping snakes. The moonlight touched their polished surfaces and turned them into tiny sparks of light. Beside the table sat a painted chest where Ahmose kept her dresses, its lid closed tight, guarding treasures Nakia would never be allowed touch.

Everything was still.

The palace beyond the walls breathed faintly—somewhere far away a door thudded softly, and she thought she heard the distant trickle of water from the garden fountains.

She knew that she should climb back under the hammock before Ahmose awoke and accused her of plotting her death or something. But -- from the moment Ahmose had adopted Nakia as her servant, Nakia hadn't had a single moment to herself. She wasn't allowed to fall asleep before Ahmose, and certainly not allowed to sleep later than the princess. And all of her waking thoughts were consumed by the princess; feeding her, clothing her, enduring her rages. When the princess was calm, Nakia just dreaded the next storm.

But now, she was awake and Ahmose was asleep. And Ahmose had never made a rule that this couldn't happen. 

Ahmose continued to snore. 

Without really allowing herself to think about what she was doing, Nakia edged toward door. She lifted it slightly — the pivoted cedar whispered faintly against its sockets. She held her breath, listening. She wasn't so far from the chamber pot that she couldn't lie if Ahmose woke up and asked Nakia what she was doing. 

Slowly, she slipped into the corridor. The further she moved away from the princess' room, the less convincing her excuses would be. But the night beckoned her. 

The corridor twisted, and the faint scent of lotus drifted to her. A soft whistle from a guard in the distance made her jump. But it wasn't Ahmose's screech, so Nakia kept moving. 

Finally, she reached the outer corridor that led to the garden. Moonlight revealed the packed sand paths, the raised beds of lotus and hibiscus, and the towering silhouettes of date palms. A fountain tinkled somewhere beyond, its sound delicate and surreal in the still night.

Even if Ahmose slept through the night and never missed Nakia, there was a second danger. If any other servant saw her and reported back -- especially any of Ahmose's favorites who also hated Nakia -- Nakia couldn't allow herself to imagine the consequences.

She paused at the edge of a lotus pond, watching the petals float on still water, letting her pulse slow slightly. And then, at the far edge of the garden, near a low stone bench, she saw a man seated cross-legged, ivory pieces arranged carefully on a carved game board. The board gleamed dark and polished, falcon heads carved into its ends, eyes glittering faintly. The edges were inlaid with faint gold and small stones and atop it were ivory pieces shaped like cats, birds, and stick figures.Beside him was a small tray with figs and a piece of flatbread, faintly scented with honey. 

She tried to retreat but her movement caught his gaze. 

He leaned forward. Moonlight touched his face. He was old — not bent and weathered, but grown. His narrow face was smooth, except for a short, dark beard. Beneath his striped linen headdress, his hair was combed perfectly. A thin golden band glinted at its center.

Even in his simple linen robe, tied lightly at the waist and falling loosely over his shoulders, he seemed impossible to touch. Around his neck, a broad collar of bright stones flashed in the moonlight. A bracelet shaped like a bird’s wing caught her eye again, and faintly, he smelled of sweet oils and something sharper.

When he looked at her, his eyes were sharp and dark. He'd been frowning, but as he examined her, his face relaxed into a faintly quizzical smile.

He was obviously important, maybe a guest of the king? Nakia wasn't allowed to leave Ahmose's room, so she didn't know what any of the guests looked like, but the palace was always hosting some dignitary or another. 

“Ah,” the man said softly, still smiling. “You’ve found my game.”

Nakia was torn between responding to his smile and running back to her spot under Ahmose's hammock. She was very aware of the thinness of her shift. The roughness, the patches. It had been too big on her when she'd come to the palace three years ago, but Ahmose had never replaced it, so now it was too small. Her arms and legs were decorated in rainbows of bruises in various stages of healing. After particularly brutal punishments, her shift would become sticky and then stiff with blood that was only allowed to be washed out once a month. And, Ahmose often told her, her face was hideous, twisted and terrifying. Nakia believed it and had no desire for a mirror. 

The man did not seem repulsed by her, though, merely curious. And slightly amused by her silence. “Do you know how to play senet?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Then allow me to teach you,” he said, leaning back slightly. He gestured her nearer, and when she moved toward him, he bent over the board and ran a finger along the polished edge, tracing the carved falcon heads at either end.

“This is the board,” he said. “Thirty squares, in three rows of ten. Each square has a purpose, though you may not see it yet.” He tapped a square with a slender finger. “Some are safe. Some bring trouble.”

Nakia knelt beside him, the stone wall still warm from the day's sunshine. The ivory pieces gleamed in the moonlight, carved into cats, birds, and little people.

“These,” he said, lifting one carefully, “are the pieces. Each player has… well, your mind does not need the names. Just know they belong to you. You move them forward along the squares, one step at a time, unless the game allows otherwise.”

He set the piece back down and nudged another. “See how it fits in the square? You must be careful. Only one piece may occupy a square at a time.”

She leaned closer, tracing the edges. The smoothness of the ivory felt impossible in her hands, like something too precious to touch.

“The board, the pieces, the path,” he murmured, watching her. “Learn them first. Then you may play.”

He picked up a fig from the tray beside him and tore it in half. Her stomach growled at he smell and she almost didn't believe it when he handed one half and ate the other. The sweetness, the warm, honeyed smell of it, made her eyes water. 

Nakia took the tiniest nibble, hoping that she could squirrel away the rest for when she was truly hungry, but he didn't take his eyes off of her until she had chewed and swallowed her final bite. Then, almost carelessly, he handed her a whole fig, and returned his gaze to the board.

Suddenly, the night made sense. The perfectly cool breeze, the warm stone, the delicious fruit -- the freedom. She was dreaming. There was no use in saving a dream fig, so she nibbled on it and turned her attention to the board, as well.

She was soon absorbed in learning, being guided and teased by him. She'd forgotten how to be teased as much as she'd forgotten how to play. At one point, she slid her cat piece forward—not toward her own safe square, but between two of his pieces.

He froze, frowning at the board, before looking at her. 

Nakia looked up at him. She'd been proud of that one, but now she was confused. "Was that wrong?" she asked, worried.

He watched her for another moment before his frown relaxed. "No, that was good," he murmured, returning his gaze to the board. "Just unexpected."

She felt a thrill at having surprised him, and just a touch of fear. For a moment, the way he'd frowned had reminded her of Ahmose just before an explosion. But after a few minutes of monitoring his mood, she relaxed and the moment was soon forgotten.

She could have played all night, but all too soon, he handed her the last piece of flatbread and started to pack up the board. "The board is tired for the night." He lifted each ivory figure with snow, deliberate fingers, and tucked them into a small cloth-lined box. He stretched luxuriously and waved her away with careless fingers. "Off with you, now," he said.

Nakia had never felt such devastation in her entire life. For a while, night had felt like day, like their own sun had hovered above their heads, making the world build only for them, warm and bright. With his dismissal, the night returned, darker and colder than ever before.

She stared at him for a moment, feeling only rejection. Not a dream, after all. The pain from her bruises, fatigue from the day all came rushing back, worse than if they'd been there the whole time.

And then, gratefulness flooded her body. She had never had, nor deserved a dream so good. She bowed and thanked him. In that moment, it didn't matter that he wasn't a king. He was her king, her god. She dare'nt show these blasphemous thoughts in her face, though, so she turned and fled back to Ahmose's room.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been gone, hours at least, but Ahmose was still draped in her hammock, still snoring peacefully. Still not quite believing this wasn't a particularly vivid dream, Nakia slid onto the floor and into her spot beneath Ahmose. One of the four carved posts holding Ahmose’s hammock had a small hollow near the base, just above the floor. Nakia folded the flatbread and slipped it inside. She was still hungry, but fuller than she had felt in a long time, and she couldn't justify eating when she knew that there were days of starvation ahead of her. Besides, if it was still there tomorrow, then tonight had definitely happened.

She lay on her back, her head against the marble floor, digesting the dates and the surprising freedom that the night had offered. It was dangerously addictive. All she had to do was refrain from using the chamber pot before falling asleep and nature would awaken her, like it had tonight. What would she do tomorrow night? It was unlikely that the stranger would still be here, and even more unlikely that he'd want to pass another night in her company. But she could stroll the gardens, or just find a comfy spot and watch the stars dance. And think. 

Deleted Scene: RIP The Sinclairs

 The mummy lay on the snow, her head propped up on a half-buried rock, looking at the sky. Her eyeballs had disintegrated millennia ago, so she couldn't see in the traditional sense, but her supernatural sight allowed her to see in shades of gray. She was aware that much of the beauty of the aurora borealis was lost on her. Still, she liked watching the play of lights as they shot across the sky.

The sweatpants and hoodie that she was wearing wouldn't have done much against the cold for a human person, but the mummy was impervious to the cold. She did, however, feel the vibration of her cellphone just under her rib bones. A series of three texts, one right after the other.

For a moment, she thought that she might not even answer it. For a moment, she didn't. She no longer had the ability to breathe, but she let out a mental sigh before pulling the phone out of the kangaroo pocket on the front of her sweatshirt.

The phone woke immediately, displaying the three short texts on the lock screen.

Kim:
karen and john sinclair r ded
plane crash
whoops! :/

Well, that was inconvenient. The series of texts came from the mummy's personal assistant, Kim. Kim was a 32-year-old software engineer from South Carolina. She was as sharp as her southern drawl was soft, and she'd never made a mistake in the decade that she'd been working for the mummy.

Until now. Karen and John Sinclair were two of the mummy's fake personas. They allowed the mummy to purchase property, stocks, and private jets. To make them seem real, Kim's job was to pay their taxes on time and to keep them rich.

One thing she did with all of the mummy's personas was keep them moving. She'd buy and sell homes in different cities, and arrange for lavish vacations. She'd even hire actors to populate these vacations.

Modern technology had made the creation and maintenance of pretend people a lot more complicated than the falsified birth certificates the mummy had relied on only a century ago. But they were necessary so that the mummy could keep looking for The King.

The King's body had been stolen from his tomb a couple of millennia ago. The mummy, who had been sacrificed to keep him company in the Afterlife, was dragged back into her desiccated body kicking and screaming. She'd been looking for him ever since.

The mummy didn't text Kim back. Instead, she purchased a plane ticket to Los Angeles, hired a staffing service to set up the mansion in Beverly Hills that belonged to the Sinclairs, and a car to take her from the airport to the mansion.

There was an underground network that the mummy operated under -- kind of like the dark web, but an actual secret. It allowed the mummy to make further arrangements, severing Kim's connections to the mummy's network of bank accounts and fake personas. As severance, the mummy added twenty million dollars to Kim's bank account before erasing any trace of her activity.

She debated texting Kim back to let her know she was fired, but Kim was a smart girl. She'd figure it out.

The mummy powered down the phone and then slid it back into her kangaroo pocket. Swirls of bright white slunk around a dark gray sky.

The mummy screamed.

Chapter 1

Tatiana had watched enough teen movies (as research, only, of course) to know that the nerds sat in the front, the cool kids sat in the back, the dreamers sat closest to the window, and the extras filled in the empty spots. Tatiana had chosen a seat exactly in the middle of the row closest to the door.

She wore a baggy black sweatsuit, a long black wig, and enormous sunglasses that hid half of her face. This meant that only the half of her face that was covered in white gauze bandages was visible, as were the bandaged fingertips that peeked out from the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

When Tatiana was mortal, high school hadn't even been invented yet. She hadn't known, at the time, to be grateful for that fact. The classroom was festering with hormones. The cacophony of concurrent conversations was a hip-high ozone of bravado overlaying an incessant buzz of anxiety.

Being around so many humans made her nervous -- not that she'd admit to anything so biologically impossible. Instead, she stared at her phone, at a series of texts, willing the letters to rearrange themselves into any order that would allow her to be anywhere else.

The teacher, chubby with curly black hair and a long bohemian skirt, entered. Her presence instantly halved the volume of noise in the room. Tatiana liked her already. The teacher's purposeful energy swept through the classroom, pushing the majority of collective angst out into the hallway. What was this magic?

The bell rang and a student skidded in, avoided eye contact with the teacher, and made his way to the only empty desk, directly in the middle of the classroom.

"My name is Ms. Bronaham," the teacher said. The classroom, a roar of bravado mere moments ago, was now so quiet that her voice nearly echoed. She placed a large binder on the desk in front of the whiteboard and flipped it open. "This is Homeroom. This is where  you come each morning to catch up on your homework." She rolled her eyes. "Or copy someone else's. Some of you may also have me for History. I'm going to take attendance. If you're here, say 'here' or 'present'. If you're not here, don't say anything."

Tatiana thought that was funny but a series of groans and boos corrected her. Ms. Bronaham,  just grinned. She looked down at her binder. "Adam Abrahams," she said.

"Present." The chubby extra sitting next to Tatiana raised his hand and then went back to staring at his phone.

Ms. Bronaham nodded and made a mark in her binder.

Tatiana took stock of her classmates as their names were called. Most of them were glued to their phones, a few were talking quietly to the person sitting next to them. They were all paying enough attention to answer when their names were called.

Fifteen students in, Tatiana caught the gaze of a student sitting in the front row. She was slim, with sleek black hair that was very long in the front and very short in the back. Her almond-shaped eyes suggested that her tan was related to her ethnicity rather than time spent in the California sunshine. She was a main character.

"Atairal Morales."

"Here," the girl said, raising a hand and letting it drop again, all without breaking eye contact with Tatiana.

So much for making it through the next two weeks as an extra. One of the mean girls had spotted her.

Ms. Bronaham had to say Tatiana's alias' name twice before Tatiana caught it. She raised her hand.

"Candace Richmond."

Atairal Morales finally broke eye contact in order to turn and glance at the blonde girl sitting to her left.

"Here!" chirped the blonde.

Ms. Bronaham nodded. "China Richmond."

"Here." The blonde sitting to the right of Atairal Morales didn't raise her hand or look up from her phone.

Although Atairal was sitting in the front row and was no longer facing Tatiana, Tatiana could still feel the girl's mental gaze on her.

Ms. Brosnahan finished taking roll. "Alright," she said, checking the last name off in her binder. She closed the binder and glanced at the wall clock. "We have another forty-five minutes until 1st period, so just hang out here until the bell rings. If you need help with your schedules or anything, come and see me up front."

Makeover! (Not currently connected to a specific chapter.)

Of the three, Princess was probably the least comfortable with Candy, which was saying something. There was something unnerving about the way that her bright eyes darted around like a curious bird, seeing everything but focusing on nothing. As Candy turned those eyes onto Princess, Princess realized that she'd never actually been alone with Candy -- how had she not known to treasure those days?

"A lot of thin girls think that if they wear baggy clothes, it disguises how thin they are," Candy said, eyeing Princess' oversized turtleneck. "But," Candy added, biting off that word with relish, "a lot of times, it can just make you look even thinner -- and not in a good way." Candy leaned toward Princess, her sway conspiratorial.

Princess leaned away, and Candy took hold of Princess' arms just below her shoulders. "We're going to fix that." She let go of Princess and stood back. "But first," she said. "Those bandages."

"I need the bandages," Princess said. "You really don't want to see what's under here."

Candy waved her hand dismissively and walked over to her bed. On it, a set of seven silver boxes were stacked, the largest on the bottom, smallest on the top. A single lacy peach-colored ribbon encircled the stack, with a simple bow on the top. Candy turned back toward Princess and with a flourish, tugged on one of the ends of the bow. The bow untied, the other end of the ribbon fluttered to rest on Candy's pale blue duvet.

Candy dropped her end of the ribbon and picked up the smallest box. It was about the size of a baby's skull -- but square. Candy cupped it her hands, walked over to Princess, and presented the gift. God, the girl was exhausting. Princess took the box and lifted the lid. At first, it appeared to be rolls of neutrally-colored ribbons, but after a moment, she realized it was gauze.

"That hospital-white has to go," Candy said firmly. "This is just as sterile as anything you'd get from a doctor. I ordered it special for you." She leaned in conspiratorially again. "Although more common in Beverly Hills than you'd think." She stood up straight. "Okay, you get changed -- wear the light tan -- and then I'll give you your next gift."

Princess, too stunned to be offended, walked over to the room divider that Candy pointed to. Who was this girl?

"Do you need help?" Candy asked. "I've helped with this sort of thing, also more often than you'd believe."

"No, I got it!" Princess called out from behind the screen. The girl had bought her skin-colored bandages, in every shade of skin, plus gray, black, silver, and gold. They were all lavender-scented. She undressed and removed her wig. Practice made the change from white to tan fairly quick. "Now what?" she asked, mostly to herself.

A silver box appeared over the top of the screen. Princess accepted the box with a less than grateful, "Thanks!" The box was slightly larger than the last, and held an array of tiny bras and even tinier thongs.

"Dark grey," Candy called out.

Princess sighed and slipped on the dark grey thong. The bra fit surprisingly well, especially once Princess had filled the a-cups with some more gauze.

"You ready for the next one?"

"Um, sure." Princess said. She accepted the next box that appeared over the top of the screen. In this one was a long-sleeved dress a shade lighter than her tan bandages. The skirt ended at her knees and the dress, one layer of sheer chiffon, was entirely see-through.

The next box held a dark gray, cable-knit sweater. The sleeves ended at her elbows and the hem ended just under her hipbones.

"Can I see?"

Princess slipped her wig and sunglasses back on and then stepped out from behind the screen.

Candy clapped her hands. "Oh, my gosh, you look so awesome!"

Princess was sure that wasn't true, but it was nice to hear. She knew she couldn't tremble, but she was as close as a mummy could be to doing just that. She wouldn't have admitted it, but her defenses had been breached efficiently and thoroughly by this presumptuous teenager.

The rest of the boxes held a belt that Cindy slipped around Princess's waist, silver calf-length boots, and bangle bracelets. She let Candy steer her in front of an ornate, full-length mirror.

She hadn't been expecting much, but on first glance, she just looked like a normal scantily-clad Beverly Hills girl. The sweater, ending just where decency would need it to, was lent respectability by the length of the sheer skirt and sleeves. The shiny boots drew attention from her bandaged face to her long, slim legs.

The bandages weren't even that conspicuous. Princess had intended for her cover to be that of a victim of bad plastic surgery and Candy had unwittingly completed that illusion better than Princess ever could. She almost looked like a real person.

The last box, the largest, still lay on Candy's bed, and even Candy looked a little nervous when she glanced at it. "You don't have to do this one, but I thought it would look nice."

They walked over to the bed together. Candy fidgeted with the peach ribbon while Princess lifted the lid of the last box. She smiled inwardly, understanding Candy's discomfort. It was a wig. It was a chocolate brown that, as Princess picked it up, shone amber where the light played on it. She walked over to the mirror. Candy kept her back turned, still preoccupied with her bit of ribbon, like an easily amused kitten.

Princess pulled off her wig and slipped on the one that Candy had chosen. It was cut to frame her strong jawline and it made her neck look incredibly long and equally vulnerable. Between the bangs and the sunglasses she always wore, the top half of her face was hidden without even needing the bandages. Again, the illusion of normalcy was almost complete.