Sumptuous.
That was the only word Aasha could summon. Though the kitchens were barren, and the other chambers empty of warmth, it was as if this was the one place where Zahril had shoved every facet of her personality. The room was multileveled.
Couches and sofas on one side—far more than one person would need for themselves—piled high with silken throw pillows and velvety blankets. Chandeliers of raw amethyst and unpolished garnet unraveled from the ceiling, as if this bed chamber had been carved into the mouth of a wondrous cave. On the second step down, there was a wide bed and several tables covered with amphorae of perfumes and bone-boxes cut into the shapes of jewels that held powders and cosmetics, lip stains and an assortment of crushed metallics for eyeshadow.
A fire roared in the other corner. Books—hundreds with gem-toned spines—lined an entire wall. There was something else too. Paintings. Paintings on every wall. They seemed familiar even though this was the first time that she had seen them. The scenes depicted a life Aasha thought she had left in her past—the Night Bazaar, its split sky cradling both a moon and a sun, the light feathering over softly rendered vendors and creatures. How could Zahril even know about such a thing? Few humans had ever gained access to the Otherworld. Even less had been admitted into its shops and allowed to leave.
“Are you going to help me with this wound or let me bleed out?” snapped Zahril.
Aasha hastened to her. She was standing beside her bed. When Aasha approached, Zahril nudged her chin to a small chest of drawers.
“The green bottle,” she said.
Aasha opened up the lid. The contents of the chest unfurled like a miniature staircase. There were slim bottles emblazoned with roses and interlocking vines, bowls of raw quartz filled with bright pigments, and a thousand slender amphorae. It smelled strong. Chemical. She traced the bottles quickly before finding a small green bottle.
“Unstopper it,” said Zahril.
She did.
“Now pat it onto my arm.”
“With what? My hand?”
“A cloth,” said Zahril.
Aasha cast her glance around, but didn’t see anything. She reached for a strange, dirty-looking rag beside Zahril’s pillow.
“Not that!” she snapped. “That’s…”
For the first time, Zahrilblushed.
“That’s not mine,” she said finally.
“It’s in your possession,” pointed out Aasha.
She held up the rag, and that was when she noticed something printed along its edges. A star balancing on the crest of a mountain. It was the same signature that she had seen on the painting in her room. It was also, she noticed as she took in the surroundings with a new eye, the same signature emblazoned on every painting here. The symbol, the scrap of cloth, the sudden glisten in Zahril’s eyes. It spoke of grief.
“Who was she?” asked Aasha.
Zahril bit her lip. “How do you know it was a she?”
She didn’t know. Not for certain, anyway. It wasn’t as though there was something distinctly feminine about the signature. Maybeit was the scent that lingered in the square of fabric. It was silk, she realized. Perhaps, once, it had been pristine and white. Instead of the threadbare and moth-bitten thing that it was now. Maybe it was the memory of love that had preserved something about it—a scent like milk steeped in roses. All delicate cream and new blossoms.
“I don’t know,” said Aasha. “Instinct, I suppose.”
Aasha cast around for a different cloth, but Zahril sighed.
“Just use it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Am I stuttering?” she snapped.
“Let’s not forget that I’m the one wielding the potion.”
“Don’t threaten me unless you intend to follow through with it.”
“Maybe I will,” said Aasha. “I could leave you.”
