“Better a hardened soul than a weak one such as yours,” Abbas scoffed.
The sultan studied Abbas for a moment and then sighed.
“You leave me no choice, then,” he finally said.
The sultan turned toward the palace door.
“Oh, no.” Abbas’s eyes narrowed. “This is not how this story ends.”
Before the sultan could take another step, Abbas lunged. The sultan stumbled. His back hit the oak table. The lantern trembled.
“What kind of sultan leaves those who would protect him outside?” Abbas laughed. He pulled out a silver knife he’d had strapped against his body and raised it in the air. “This works out far better than I’d planned, actually. Who needs an army when I can finish you off myself? Now I can say I overthrew the sultan with my own two hands. Imagine that! They’ll write legends about me one day.”
But as he went to attack, the sultan ducked. The knife stabbed the desk instead. Abbas grunted and yanked the weapon out, but not before the sultan’s closed fist struck Abbas’s jaw. Abbas crumpled against the desk. His head hit the lantern, which tumbled to the ground. The glass shattered. In an instant, the flickering flame came to life with a roar. It licked at the carpet and crawled up the ceiling, devouring centuries-old murals and paintings, turning them into ash.
And so, too, burned the oak table and the maps that lay within.
JASMINE STOOD in the palace hall holding a basket of sweet candies. She handed them out to the children standing before her now, their hands outstretched awaiting their treats. The little girls wore dresses, some with flowers, others with birds stitched upon them. The boys wore cream, brown, and sage-green tunics. One by one she plucked out candies from her basket and placed them into each child’s palm—cherry, lemon, and strawberry-flavored—and the children thanked her before hurrying off happily. She watched them leave, nostalgic for her own childhood, for she had also grown up attending these festivals and had many a warm memory of eating sweets and swaying to the music without a care in the world. Those days felt many moons ago now.
The hall was aglow with lights strung against lattices; glass lanterns of pink and amber lined the walkways leading to the festivities. Jasmine smiled, pleased at the results. The Harvest Festival was one of the few things in Agrabah that fell within her domain, and she enjoyed designing the theme and look it would take on each year. The musicians, whom she had hand-selected after listening to many a questionable audition, played a lively song from their place by the dance floor. Festival attendees twirled to the music just across from where she stood. She inhaled the smell of buttery baklava and creamy pistachio pudding wafting over to her from the food stations, where renowned chefs and cooks prepared delicacies for the revelers. With the lights twinkling overhead and the music floating into the night air, as disillusioned as she’d felt lately about Agrabah—and the way her father constantly brushed her thoughts and opinions about the kingdom aside—she had to admit that when it came to the Harvest Festival, everything had worked out absolutely perfectly. If only she could push away the sadness that still lingered in her chest.
Jasmine looked around the hall yet again, scanning the room for any sign of the kind black-haired boy with the warm brown eyes. She knew it was unlikely Aladdin would have come to the festival, but still, she’d hoped. She had met him just a few days earlier when she’d traded clothes with her handmaiden and snuck out of the palace to explore the streets of Agrabah. She didn’t know how he’d managed to charm her so completely, but he undeniably had. It was Aladdin who’d helped her navigate the city and truly see the kingdom of Agrabah as she’d always longed to. And despite the differences in their social circumstances, she and Aladdin had connected in a way she hadn’t with anyone before. Jasmine remembered how, when she’d found herself lost in the city, Aladdin had held out his hand, asked her if she trusted him. Even though she’d barely known him, she had let her guard down; she had trusted him. But perhaps, she thought now, she’d trusted him much too easily. Because he had promised to meet her the previous night, and she’d waited well until the moon had slipped from the sky—and the boy never came. It was just as well, she supposed. What future could two people from such different worlds have? Still, the disappointment stung.
“May I have one more candy?” a little girl asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“Of course you can.” Jasmine looked down at the child. She had curled pigtails tied in ribbons and grinned as Jasmine handed her a maple-flavored sweet. The girl thanked the princess before hurrying off. Jasmine watched as she looped around one of the hall’s bronze pillars, passed a group of boys in starched tunics tossing a ball back and forth, and finally joined her mother, who stood in line for grilled kebabs and a cheese pastry the chef was preparing warm and fresh. The mother looked down and smiled at her daughter. Jasmine remembered her own mother smiling at her the same way. The Queen had been a great leader and had infused in Jasmine her love for learning and her passion for leadership. Had her mother still been alive, Jasmine’s life would have turned out quite differently. Even when Jasmine was a child, her mother had taken her desire to be sultana seriously—indeed, she had been preparing Jasmine for that very role until her untimely and tragic death changed everything.
From the corner of her eye, Jasmine noticed Prince Anders. It was hard to miss him, what with his fuchsia and green royal costume and the ridiculous fur-lined hat he never took off, even in the balmy heat of Agrabah. Right now, he positively glowed from the praise and adulation of the people surrounding him. Which was just as well—their attention kept him from regaling her with tales of his lands and his brilliance. In contrast to Prince Anders, the other visiting royal, Prince Ali of Ababwa (a kingdom so obscure even she hadn’t heard of it) seemed to be keeping to himself. He stood awkwardly against the wall opposite her. While Prince Anders’s outfit was completely over the top, Prince Ali wore a gold-fringed cream outfit that was simple enough, even if the costume involved so many layers it looked as though his clothing intended to swallow him whole. Still, he was dressed far more plainly than she’d have expected of someone who’d barreled into town with the most obnoxious entourage she’d ever seen, replete with marching drummers, dancers, peacocks, and golden camels. He had arrived standing on a flower-covered camel float, of all things. And yet now he stood on the other side of the room, staring at his surroundings as though he’d never been inside a palace before.
“He seems different.” It was Dalia, Jasmine’s handmaiden and best friend, who spoke, nodding toward Prince Ali. “And his friend is incredibly attractive, so please make it work?”
Jasmine glanced at the jovial-looking advisor standing next to the prince; he was broad-shouldered, wore blue, and stood a bit taller than Ali.
“What about the prince?” Jasmine raised an eyebrow.
“Seems cute in a nervous, low-self-esteem kind of way.” Dalia shrugged. “He’s trying too hard.”
“That’s the problem,” Jasmine said. “I need someone with more heart.” She glanced at Ali and suddenly felt bad for her harsh words. It wasn’t his fault he’d come courting—her father was obsessed with marriage and constantly encouraged princely suitors when all Jasmine wanted was a seat at the table to help lead Agrabah in the right direction for the sake of its people. Ali didn’t know marriage was the last thing on her mind. As far as princes went, though, she had to admit he didn’t seem quite as bad as the others who’d come to try to win her hand. Sure, what with his poor attempts at smooth talking, he’d put his foot in his mouth more times than she could count in the brief exchanges they’d had since he’d arrived at the palace. But even if his execution was awkward, his intentions were good—she could tell that much.
“Here he comes! He’s coming!” Dalia’s eyes widened. “Act natural.”
Jasmine suppressed a smile as Prince Ali approached.
“Sorry for earlier,” he told her. “I didn’t mean to…I’m not used to partying. I mean, I am, but…”
Dalia was right, Jasmine thought. Despite herself, she smiled at him. He was kind of adorable—in a nervous sort of way.
“Dance?” Jasmine interrupted him. She needed to put him out of his misery. “I’d love to.”
Prince Ali’s eyes widened, but before he could say anything else, she led him to the dance floor. Music swelled around them as the musicians began their next song. Jasmine began to move to the beat, but Ali’s feet looked permanently glued to the ground. Now what’s the matter? she wondered. She was about to ask him if he was all right when suddenly he began dancing—if one could call it that. His hands and legs flailed about him as though he were a puppet. What on earth…? thought Jasmine. But she smiled in spite of herself. He was trying. She’d give him that much.
Seeing the shift in her expression, Ali grinned. It was the first genuine smile she’d seen from him since they’d met, and as she noticed the way his dimple deepened, something inside her softened. When the next song began, Ali swept Jasmine into his arms. Once his nerves had settled, it turned out he was actually a good dancer. A very good dancer. And there was something about those eyes—they looked familiar somehow. Comforting. With his arms around her waist, they moved across the dance floor. Looking into his deep brown eyes, she felt as though the crowd had melted away and it was just the two of them in all the world.
She gazed at Prince Ali. Who was this mysterious prince? What was his story?
The music shifted then, pulling both of them out of their reveries. The next song was a popular one and more up-tempo. Prince Ali’s eyes lit up. Pulling her back, he spun her out across the dance floor. And then—he danced. Without her. Jasmine watched from the sidelines. He danced like his feet were on fire. He pivoted and spun, and soon a crowd of attendees surrounded him on the dance floor, clapping and cheering him on as they swayed to the music.
Jasmine’s heart sank. Just like that, the moment was over.
When the music stopped, Prince Ali looked through the crowd until his eyes landed on hers. There it was. That self-satisfied, smug grin. Just like Prince Anders’s. He had managed to charm her with one dance, and she’d let her loneliness get the best of her, believing there was more to him than there was. But there wasn’t more to him. There was no mystery. He was a wealthy, attention-seeking prince, just like all the others before him.
Suddenly, Jasmine felt weary. She was tired of compromising and making the best of her stifling situation. She was tired of men appearing at her doorstep day after day, looking at her as an object of conquest. Why had she even bothered to come to this at all? She’d have been better off staying in her quarters finishing up with rereading Legendary Leaders Across the Ages. There was nothing at this festival—or in Agrabah—for her.
Without another word, Jasmine swallowed her disappointment, turned on her heel, and walked away.
ALADDIN WATCHED the flickering glow of the lanterns in the courtyard below as he stood on the edge of Jasmine’s balcony. The music from the Harvest Festival played faintly beneath him. Palm trees rustled against one another. The moon glowed full and bright against the night sky, the stars a glittering blanket above.
He half expected Abu to scamper up one of the trees. It felt strange not to have his pet monkey by his side. But Jasmine had met Abu when they’d explored Agrabah together—seeing him here now would have given the whole thing away. And he knew Abu was enjoying being pampered in Aladdin’s guest quarters anyway.
Aladdin plucked a wayward silk thread from his royal outfit. He’d wished to be a prince, and Genie had done a perfect job in granting his wish. The clothing still felt strange, though, with all its poufy layers. The hat itched a bit, too. He fidgeted. Regardless of what he thought about his clothing, none of it mattered if he couldn’t erase the look of disappointment that had settled across Jasmine’s face earlier that evening.
The three wishes Genie had granted Aladdin when he’d rubbed the golden lamp had initially seemed like plenty. But Aladdin had already used up his first wish to become prince of the fictional “Ababwa,” and he’d promised his last wish to Genie to free his friend from a lifetime of servitude, which left Aladdin with only one. And since he couldn’t wish for more wishes—Genie had been quite clear about that—he needed to make each of them count.
The magic carpet hovered on the other side of the balcony, just out of sight. Aladdin glanced down at it now; it waggled a tassel in greeting.
