The warmth of the bliss in my veins turns cold, the honey-sweetness on my tongue growing bitter. “You don’t want me?”
His gaze slides to me again, and his lips part in a breath. “You’re very intoxicated right now, Àn’ying,” he says softly.
It’s growing brighter. At the end of this passageway of flowers, a screen of smoke swirls.
We step through it into a vast chamber awash in gentle candlelight. A great rosewood bed sits in one corner, draped in dark velvet and silver sheets. Gauze curtains drift in a serene breeze through doorways that lead to a pavilion outside.
Behind us, the smoky screen hardens into doors that gleam like black glass.
My companion carries me over to a silk-covered futon perched before the pavilion.
“Are you hurt?” The question is so gentle.
Something stirs in my chest. An old, familiar ache. “I don’t think so,” I whisper. I’m suddenly tired, so tired that I cannot fathom moving from this futon again.
“Whose blood is this?” He touches my midriff, my hands, and that’s the first time I notice the sticky sensation between my fingers, the darkness coating my dress.
I frown. “I don’t remember.”
My host leans forward, studying me with urgency. “Do you know what happened?” he asks.
Something in his tone cuts through the fog in my mind. Aprimal instinct whispers that something is wrong, so devastatingly wrong, but my head begins to pound whenever I try to latch onto that thought. The sweetness on my tongue turns cloying, as though I’ve bitten into a fruit only to discover the rot within.
“No,” I whisper, and I reach out, because I feel a little lost and I want someone to hold on to in this moment. My fingers close around the collar of his robes, and I tip forward, curling against his chest. There, I hear a familiarthump, thump, thumpof his heart, feel the tick of his pulse against my cheek.
My host exhales slowly, and then he sweeps his arms over me, gathering me to him with an intimacy that feels almost familiar.
“Àn’ying,” he murmurs.
I know him. I know him with my heart, a deep sense of familiarity that feels engraved into my bones—but my mind is filled with fog, and I cannot for the life of me reconcile this echo in my soul with the blankness in my head.
“You’re shivering,” he observes. His hands are warm against my bare shoulders. “I’ll draw you a bath outside.”
For some reason, I feel safer than I can remember as his arms close around me and he lifts me once again.
We step beyond the silks and gauzes, and the world opens to me: one that feels utterly new. The moon is a scythe, bone-white and gleaming. In the distance, at the edge of the realm, colored lights weave amidst stars.
The ground of soft grass opens into a crystal spring surrounded by barren trees, their branches cutting jagged shadows in the night. My companion deposits me by the spring. The water is so clear that I reach for it, believing I can grasp a fistful of the shifting stars reflected within it.
It’s ice-cold and draws a yelp from me.
“I have to heat it for you,” my host says, his lip twitching in amusement. He bends and presses his palms to the surface of the spring.
The water begins to ripple. And all around us, the barren trees begin to change. Small red buds that resemble glittering rubies appear—and as the spring starts to steam, they bloom.
I reach out to the nearest flower. At my touch, it drifts into my hand, the petals curling like claws. A wave of warmth and healing washes over me, chasing away my cold and fatigue. The dread in my chest fades, and I can’t ever remember feeling anything but this spiraling bliss.A flower made for a tragic fate, I think, and I glance up at my host. His eyes are glowing the same color as the scorpion lilies.
He catches me staring at him and smiles. I like the way it softens his features, transforms his entire face. “The water is warmnow.”
Gently, I reach for him and tip his chin toward me.
His shoulders tense. Quickly, he looks away. “They’re red from my magic,” he explains. It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about his eyes. “To heat the water. Don’t…don’t be frightened.”
“It’s beautiful.” The taste of honey nectar intensifies on my tongue, and those invisible strings tug at me again. “You’re beautiful,” I tell him, because it’s true.
He draws a sharp breath. “You’re not in your right mind,” he says, and stands swiftly. “The water is ready.”
Before I can reply, he strides through the gauze curtains and vanishes into the chambers.
