“You shouldn’t be here,” Melia whispered.
“Who’s going to notice?” Ferisa scoffed. “So, do you like him?”
“He’s cold and distant and I don’t know what to think.” Melia sat on the bed. “Come sit beside me.”
When Ferisa joined her, Melia rested her head on her shoulder and closed her eyes. “Have you ever done it with a man?” she asked. There was no possessiveness, no jealousy—no relationship to speak of—just careful curiosity.
“Yes.” Ferisa didn’t elaborate.
“What’s it like?”
“Brief and unpleasant,” Ferisa said. “If you lie still and do whathe says, it will be over soon enough.”
• • •
The next morning,Melia was little more than a doll to dress and paint. Dozens of hands touched her, scrubbing her, combing her hair, wrapping her in layers of fabric like a precious gift. She chose a red gown, for luck, and wove blood-red roses into her black hair. Women lined her eyes in black, painted her eyelids gold and her lips dark red. They rubbed perfumed oil into her skin and polished her nails, bitten down to raw flesh, until they shone like alabaster. A gold necklace with six dark rubies as big as hazelnuts, Amron’s wedding gift to her, hugged her neck.
Yet, when she looked at herself in the mirror, all she could see was a scrawny, overdressed girl with a wreath of roses too beautiful for her on her head. An apparition dragged out in the sun against her will, exposed before curious, unfriendly eyes. Suddenly, she yearned for silence, for her shabby wool, for the dark, empty corridors.
Women crowded around her—her late mother’s ladies, smelling of dust and old leather; her maids, giggling behind her back; the pale courtiers from the prince’s entourage, with their derisive eyes. They made her feel more alone, exposed and raw.
Melia wished Rovin was there, and her mother.
She descended into the courtyard, blinking away tears. The binding ceremony was always performed out in the open. Their only garden was a dried-up wasteland of thorny shrubs, so her father decided the courtyard was more appropriate. Carpets were brought out and laid on the dusty flagstones and someone had erected a wooden arch and adorned it with garlands of fresh leaves and flowers. A sweet, melancholy tune floated in the air as she descended the stairs and all eyes turned to her.
She saw the prince, in somber blue and gray, waiting besidea priestess in a flaming red robe. The color of the Goddess of Love. It felt like a mockery, to drag Lada’s priestess to perform a ceremony so blatantly devoid of love. The God of War would’ve been more fitting.
Her father caught her hand when she descended. “You look like a princess,” he whispered in her ear, leading her through the crowd. His words stuck to her skin like oily residue, tarnishing her. His kiss on her forehead, before the altar, seared her skin like a flaming curse.
“I give her to you,” her father told the prince.
Prince Amron took her hand with an unreadable expression on his face, serene and unblinking. His skin was warm and dry, and there was a faint scent of bergamot about him.
As the priestess tied their hands together with a red ribbon, Melia watched his profile, wondering what thoughts filled his head.
“I join you before the eyes of gods and people, from now until death,” the priestess said, and offered him a silver chalice.
He took a sip. “Melia, I take you to be my wife, from now until death,” he said in a voice clear enough to reach the far corners of the courtyard.
She took a sip. It was overly sweet and very bitter at the same time. “Amron, I take you to be my husband, from now until death,” she said.
He bowed down and kissed her: a quick dry brush of his lips against hers, over in a heartbeat.
The crowd cheered. She looked up as the sun dipped behind the battlements. The dusk in Syr always smelled like blood.
There was a feast afterwards, with mountains of food and rivers of wine, and music and dancing. And still, the prince eluded her, surrounded by other people, dragged this way and that. He danced with her once, gliding across the floor while she struggled to keep up, feeling clumsy and provincial. The dressconstrained her, the roses scratched her scalp, the gold paint burned her eyelids.
The evening slid out of her hands, shattered like a crystal vase on the flags. Melia didn’t want to be there, she knew she would mess everything up, grind it into fine dust the wind would blow away. She was a creature of death and grief; no silk nor paint nor fresh flowers could change that.
The odor of blood lingered in her nose, the light flickered, and all she could see in the great hall were the dead, whirling to the fast tune, toasting her, their decomposing faces grinning like outlaws swinging on the gallows, staring at her with their empty sockets. A terrified sob escaped her lips, her hand jerked, pushing her glass over, a bloody stain splashed the white cloth—
“Melia.” Prince Amron touched her hand. “It’s time.”
And still they were not allowed to be alone. Men gathered around him, women grabbed her and dragged to her chambers, laughing and squealing. It took almost as much time to unwrap her as it took to deck her out. Off went the red silk and the roses, the golden necklace, the face paint. She was washed, again, more perfumed oil was rubbed into her skin, a gossamer-thin embroidered nightgown was pulled over her head.
As if on cue, he walked into her room when the women finished combing her hair. “Out,” he said, and they scattered like a flock of birds.
He was casually disrobed, out of his formal attire, but still in his shirt and trousers. He walked to the small round table in the corner. “They left us nothing but wine,” he said, “and I’ve had too much already.”
