UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Meira
THE TOUR OFthe brothel takes three hours.
Three hours.
One wing of the building was built more than four hundred years ago. One caters entirely to people who like women; one, men; one, a mixture. The uppermost level holds private suites, one of which Simon reserved for us, but his offer was met with a firm, emotionless refusal. Theron figured out why I wanted a tour rather quickly, and spent the time analyzing details as much as I was. But not a damned alcove, plant, sculpture, or even a tile seemed to contain anything related to the Order of the Lustrate—no symbols like in the chasm, at least.
So after far too many run-ins with nudity, I feigned exhaustion and Simon dismissed us to rest for the party that night.
If this is how our search is going to go in every kingdom,I don’t think I’ll survive the trip.
The celebration Simon promised—or threatened, more like—starts just after sunset. Again, Nessa and Dendera stay behind—this time, not for lack of trying on Nessa’s part.
“Maybe if more of your court is with you, he won’t be so . . .” but her words trail off as she wrings her hands. I didn’t tell her everything that happened, just enough for her and Dendera to get the general idea of my stance on Summer.
I squeeze her arm. “No, stay here. I won’t be gone long.”
She holds my gaze. “You’ll tell me about it, won’t you? When you return?”
I bite the inside of my cheek.If there’s any part of it Icantell you. “I’ll be back soon.”
Nessa’s shoulders dip forward and she slides away, taking a seat next to Dendera in the corner of my room. She seems . . . defeated. Did she expect me to bring her? Even if I wanted to, her brothers wouldn’t allow it, and rightfully so.
But Nessa offers a smile as I leave. See? She’s fine. It’s just this heat—it’s making all of us edgy.
Dendera let me stay in my very unworthy-of-a-celebration pants and shirt, modest and more suited to Summer than a gown. When I meet Theron and his men in the hall again, he wraps his arm around my waist and tucks histhumb into my belt loops as if it’s his natural stance. I don’t fight him, too preoccupied with trying to prepare myself for whatever lies ahead.
A servant leads us to a celebration hall, drums luring us in beats that vibrate through the sandy walls. Outside, faintly, more drumbeats can be heard, the start of parties reverberating through the city. Voices lift in laughter, and when we duck through an archway, a party unfolds around us.
Orange, scarlet, and gold fabric wrap around columns of the sandy bricks within a massive open-air room. Four stories of balconies lift up, ending in a swath of bluish-black sky in the process of sinking into night, encouraging fire pits that roar from every corner, torches that flicker along the walls, and fire-dancers who spew strands of flames over the tightly packed crowd. Cheers and squeals of pleasure ricochet from every direction, peppered with the clinking of goblets.
If I thought it was hot in the brothel, it’s absolutely searing here. The nearest fire is in the mouth of a dancer against the wall, but the heat I feel is strong and sure and close, pulsing over my skin with deliberate yet chaotic fingers. The heat comes from the Summerians, their bodies radiating waves of it just like the impenetrable cold that surrounds all Winterians. It swarms me, blistering, unrepentant. A heat that could drive people mad, warp images, and blur thoughts.
Theron leads me in, drawn by the swaying of the drums or the giddiness of laughter. My eyes dart from person to person, noting every brand like a beacon. Just as many slaves populate this room as non-slaves, serving drink or food or dancing with courtiers. Even the ones serving refreshments seem to be enjoying themselves, swaying with trays over their heads.
Simon, dressed this time, sits in the center of a dais in the middle of the room. A grand orange tent caps the area, sunbeams sewn in gold thread glittering in the pulsing firelight. He reclines with the Yakimian girl who accompanied him earlier. She’s the first to see us, whispering a quick word of warning to Simon, who snaps his attention to the foot of the dais and beams.
“Winter queen!” He leaps up, not even bothering to notice Theron this time. Why would a Season king so unashamedly disregard a Rhythm?
Cordell doesn’t sell to Summer—which means they are of no use to Simon. And he obviously doesn’t care about forging any connection, because when he saunters down the dais, he actuallyshovesTheron out of the way to put his arm around my shoulders.
“Meira! May I call you Meira?” Simon grabs a goblet from a passing tray and presses it to me. I take it only to avoid it spilling when he lets go. “Try this—you won’t regret it. A ten-year-old red. Delicious.”
He tugs me forward, trying to pull me beneath thecanopy over his dais, but I plant my feet on the floor, heat leaching steadiness from my body so I stumble.
Don’t be stupid,Ceridwen’s voice echoes from my memory.
“Thank you,” I manage, and duck out from under his grip before he can touch me skin to skin. His is one mind I’d rathernotsee into. “But Prince Theron is more of a wine lover than I am.”
Theron blinks surprise when I thrust the goblet at him, but he takes it, casting me a suspicious look. “Yes,” he says, clears his throat, and turns to Simon. “Wine. I love it.”
Simon smiles. “Really? Cordell does make a good ale, though.” He turns back to me, eyes squished as he thinks. After a moment, he snaps his fingers in realization. “I know just what will entice you, Winter queen!”
