1857 – Ferozabad | Mansion of Nawab Shahbaz Mirza
In the heart of Ferozabad, the Mirza mansion hummed with the anxious energy of an approaching royal visit. Red sandstone corridors echoed with hurried footsteps, silk robes brushing against carved lattice panels, and the clink of silver bangles on maids setting ornate trays.
"Quickly now! Bring the emerald shawl, not the turquoise—this is diplomacy, not a wedding," snapped one of the head attendants as two girls scurried past, arms full of pressed robes.
Within the royal salon, Nawab Shahbaz Mirza stood adjusting the folds of his deep maroon angarkha, its gold embroidery gleaming under the chandelier. His brow was furrowed as he looked into the polished mirror. At his side, his old friend and advisor, Mir Baksh, was calmly sipping kahwa.
"It's been… what? Fifteen years?" Shahbaz murmured. "Prince Arav was a boy the last time I saw him.His father and I are great friends,i have always treated little Arav then,like my own son. Now my son is returning from war like some mythic hero.I am up in the moon"
"He carries his father's legacy well," Mir Baksh replied. "Today is more than reunion—it is history's wheel turning again."
Just then, the salon doors creaked open and in walked Yaseem Ali Mirza, tall, sharp-jawed, and slightly disheveled—looking very much like a young nobleman who had stayed up all night forging a plan.
"Uncle," Yaseem began with a dramatic pause, placing a hand on her chest, "I bring… unfortunate news."
Shahbaz turned, eyes narrowing. "What now?"
"It's Noor Jahan." Yaseem gave a long, sorrowful sigh that would've earned her an award in theatre. "She's… struck with a fever. Mild, but persistent. I fear the excitement of today proved too much for her gentle constitution."
Mir Baksh lifted an eyebrow, amused.
Shahbaz's expression dropped immediately into concern. "Fever? Since when?"
"Since… this morning," Yaseem said, hesitating just enough to be suspicious. "Or perhaps last night. Hard to tell when one tosses and turns from poetry-induced delirium."
"She was fine at breakfast," murmured Shahbaz.
"She hid it," Yaseem replied quickly. "Brave girl. Didn't want to upset you."
At that moment, Begum Ruksana Mirza entered the salon, elegance in motion, her dupatta draped like moonlight over her shoulders. She gave Yaseem one long look.
She smiled at her like an innocent caught mid-sin. Ruksana arched a single brow, equal parts exasperation and admiration, and turned to her husband.
"She's resting now," she said with calm authority. "Let her be. The Prince is not expecting the entire court to arrive."
"But she should have met him," Shahbaz insisted softly, worry still etched in his brow. "She was so eager,besides Maharaja Prithviraj Rathore was eagerly waiting to see Noor Jahan"
"I understand," Ruksana said, placing a hand on his arm. "But we must not make a sick girl ride through the sun."
Mir Baksh set his cup down and stepped forward with a practiced smile. "My lord, allow me to stay behind. I'll watch over the princess. You have waited too long for this day. Don't let a few degrees of heat rob it of meaning."
Shahbaz hesitated.
"I will personally make sure she rests, eats, and doesn't compose any dangerous verses," he added dryly, nodding toward Yaseem.
Ruksana smirked.
Finally, Nawab Shahbaz sighed and turned to Yaseem. "Keep your eyes open."
Yaseem placed a hand on her heart. "Always, uncle. Like a hawk."
---
Outside in the courtyard, the royal carriage gleamed under the sun. It was a masterpiece—mahogany wood, silver linings, hand-painted panels of lilies and falcons, with brass-stamped wheels that bore the Mirza family crest. Two white Marwari horses snorted restlessly, their bridles laced with tiny bells.
As Shahbaz and Ruksana descended the wide staircase, Ruksana's silk robe trailing behind her, Yaseem walked a step behind, her expression composed but inwardly thrilled by the success of the little ruse.
From the high arched window of her chamber, Noor Jahan watched them. Her face was soft with unspoken laughter, one hand gently holding back the pale curtain. She wore a robe of deep teal, her hair braided loosely down one shoulder, her eyes gleaming with mischief and longing.
Just as Yaseem reached the carriage, she turned his head. As if instinct guided her. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat.
Noor tilted her head slightly, a silent thank you dancing in her expression.
At her side, her mother's glance flicked upward. Ruksana spotted her daughter at the window and, without a word, gave the tiniest smile and turned away.
The carriage creaked forward, wheels rumbling against stone.
Down below in the sprawling lawn of the estate, under the canopy of a fig tree, Mir Baksh stood with his hands behind his back. His eyes rose slowly to Noor Jahan's window.
She half-stepped back into the shadows of the curtain, but not before giving him a slow, secret smile.
Mir Baksh simply nodded.
The princess wasn't sick.
She had her own plans.