The South Wind snorts. “No one can take advantage of you, Sarai. But—fine. If you refuse to admit that you desire me as I desire you, that is your prerogative.”
“Now who’s the liar?”
He is still, this immortal. Darkness leaches from the air to cloud the space between us so that I struggle to see his face in full. “What, exactly, have I lied to you about?”
“If you truly desire me as you claim,” I state, “you would have stayed all those years ago. But you didn’t.”
A blankness slides across his eyes, snuffing out the fire sparking within. I am sorry to see it go. Sorrier still that the past is present, this wound unhealed. When Notus retreats a step, my body goes cold.
“You’re right,” he says bitingly. “Then again, you always are.” Nudging me aside, he pushes out into the hallway, blinding me with the sudden flood of light.
15
“YOU DIDWHAT?”
Glaring at Roshar from where I sit curled in one of the oversized armchairs occupying his workroom, I shovel another pistachio cookie into my mouth. “Do I need to repeat myself?” I mumble, mouth full of crumbs.
The man is a coil of nervous energy. His long legs propel him to the window, the door, around the tables piled high with silk and muslin, wool and linen. The emerald fabric of his elegantly cut robe flaps around his shins.
“Oh no, my dear. I heard you perfectly the first time. I’m just beginning to question if I’m dreaming or if I am, in fact, dead.”
Pacing and pacing. Yet more pacing.
“Roshar,” I snap. “You’re making me dizzy.”
“Oh,I’mmaking you dizzy?” He halts in place, pivots to face me. His spectacles magnify what is a spectacular pair of hazel-green eyes, long-lashed and bright with undeniable irritation. “Let me get this straight. You kissed the South Wind… while being engaged to Prince Balior. Is that right?”
Calmly, I set down the plate of cookies. I am no stranger to Roshar’s moods. They change more swiftly than the season’s current fashions.
“Prince Balior and I hadn’t solidified our engagement. We were only courting,” I say. “I’m engaged to Notus.”
Roshar shakes his head in denial. “I see what this is.” He begins to roll up his sleeves with quick, perfunctory motions. “You’re angry because I sewed that musical notation into your dress without your knowledge. Now you wish to surprise me in a similar fashion. I understand, my dear, I do. Roshar loves petty revenge as much as the next spurned bride, but I had hoped you would recognize those stitches as an act of love.”
“Roshar.” I wait until he meets my gaze. “It’s the truth.”
He doesn’twantto believe me, but he must, and huffs in vexation. “Forgive me, Sarai. You can’t spring this information on a person who has not even had his morning tea yet.”
His fingers tear through his impeccably coifed hair. Then, as if realizing what he’s done, he hurries toward the floor-length mirror and brushes the unkempt locks back into place.
My eyes meet Roshar’s in the mirror’s reflection. His expression is a kaleidoscope of emotion. Horror. Outrage. Intrigue. Outrage. Disbelief. Yet more outrage.
Voice hushed, he asks, “When did you and Notus get engaged?”
“Last week, before the ball.”
He drops his arms, eyes comically wide. “Last week? And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“It’s not my fault you were called away on a commission, though I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
And then I see what I have overlooked amidst Roshar’s preening and dramatics, the flashy nature of his character. There is a wounded bend to his mouth. I have hurt my friend’s feelings, though that was never my intention.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was going to tell you, but it hasn’t been easy.” I flick the edge of the plate in frustration. It doesn’t help much. “To tell you the truth, my father isn’t supportive of the union.”
His shoulders slump, and he frowns into the mirror. “I suppose that makes sense,” he replies thoughtfully, “considering his plans for your arranged marriage have been tossed out the window.”
I nod, relieved that he is able to see my perspective. “It was unexpected. Prince Balior is… not pleased.” An understatement. And there’s his army to contend with as well. “Iamsorry—”
