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    “… is the duty of royalty to set a good example for the kingdom. How can we expect commoners to behave and exalt us as descendants of the most high genies, when you insist on crawling through gutters with low-born rascals—”
    “My friends are noble born,” Star interrupted, “and I think royalty should venture out occasionally and see how common people regard us. How can you and Father claim to rule this kingdom if you don’t know the people? Do the citizens love us, hate us, or not care at all? Do you know? All of Cursrah’s noble class lives by night while the commoners toil by day. How can you say that you understand them?”
    Star’s mother resembled her daughter but for greater girth and thicker makeup to disguise wrinkles, and like her daughter she rolled her eyes in exasperation. Having just arisen from a day of sleep, even the first sama wore the universal, simple tubelike shift. Her plump figure floated in a cloud of gauze filmy as spider webs.
    “Amenstar, dear, royalty relies on advisors to gather knowledge and give counsel—which always conflicts. We don’t tell the cooks how to salt the broth. Great Calim himself, all praise his name, assigned us each a specific role. The royal family tends to the highest chores: steering diplomacy between the city-states, interpreting the wishes of the gods, overseeing a balanced trade, monitoring our neighbors’ internal politics—”
    “You’re lax in that,” Star blurted. “Our soldiers fear Father, and you underestimate the threat from Oxonsis. Their scouts reconnoiter our borders and harry our outermost garrisons, I’ve heard. The wisdom of the marketplace is that we should bloody Oxonsis’s nose before they annex our eastern plains.” Star lifted her pointed nose, proud to score political points, but in fact she understood neither “reconnoiter” nor “annex.”
    “Don’t babble, Amenstar. Your parrots speak too, but no one seeks their advice.” The sama closed her eyes and added, “Don’t diverge from the subject, please. You must not slip out of the compound again. It’s simply too dangerous in these troubled times—”
    “Times are always troubled,” Star sighed.
    An acolyte shuffled up with a message from the bakkal, who had also recently begun his “day.” With a shaved head and brown robes bundled to her chin, speaking in a habitual whisper, the acolyte resembled a hairy-legged spider. Star looked away in disgust. These adherents of death seemed three-quarters dead themselves. As night settled, vizars crawled from their dens like bats or jackals or vampires.
    Glancing at the slate palette, the sama agreed to come, after blowing one last frosty blast at her wayward daughter. “Amenstar,” she said, “your abysmal naivete regarding our border crisis reveals dangerous gaps in your education. Your father and I have laid plans to rectify your ignorance. Remain here. I’ll send tutors to clarify your perception of the world—and your place and duties in it. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, Mother,” Star said quietly. Agreeing put the quickest end to the harangue.
    “I wonder if that’s true,” the sama sighed. “Oftimes I wish Tunkeb were the eldest samira. She strives for obedience.” Turning a tubby circle, the sama swept out, trailed by eight maids and four standard-bearers.
    “Tunkeb is a kisser of warty, hairy bottoms,” Star muttered.
    Behind, an empty-headed maid giggled, but when Star turned, they all stared stone-faced. The princess wondered which honey-tongued traitor had squealed about Star ditching her guards and fleeing the royal compound. Servants were notorious for carrying whispers, plotting lies, and betraying anyone in order to inch up the social ladder. Star trusted none of the fawning fools and sensed their smug glee at her being grounded.
    Clapping her hands, Amenstar barked, “All of you, begone! I wish to nap.” The maids chirped in surprise. Usually, two maids watched the samira sleep.
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