Amron lit several more candles, letting warm light wash over the room. He was still dressed in his ceremonial garb for the wedding—he must have rushed to her as soon as he’d been free to leave. She draped his fine cloak over a chair; it would be a shame to ruin it.
He turned to look at her. “Gods,” he said. “What happened to you?”
There was a small mirror on the washstand. It showed her a woman she barely recognized: tangled hair, dress torn to ribbons, dirty face splattered with blood, a nasty gash on her arm.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“It’s just cuts and bruises.” She examined the wound on her arm: Ferisa’s blade had cut deep, yet it had already started closing without being sewn shut. “I heal very fast.”
“It would be wise to clean them.” He opened the door, exchanged a few muffled words with someone standing outside, then returned to her. “Sit down, please.”
She picked a simple wooden chair, unwilling to leave traces of mud on fine fabrics.
“Your father told me about you,” he said.
She wondered how a father who barely knew her had introduced her to the man she loved. “How much did he tell you?”
“Only the important bits.”
The bit about her mother, too—she saw it on his face. Yet Amron was discreet almost to a fault, as always. Despite the obvious curiosity, he didn’t pry, aware that divine blood was not the wonderful magic the legends portrayed it to be, but a dangerous curse.
“He couldn’t tell me how a girl who’d never left Till before could travel across half the kingdom alone, without money or protection. And, more importantly, he couldn’t tell me why you were here in Abia.” He poured some water from the jug into a porcelain basin and brought it to a little round table near Liana’s chair. He put a sponge and a towel beside the basin. “Here, this will do for now. Wash yourself, I won’t watch.” He walked to the window. “I thought you’d tell him more than you told me at the party, but all he knew was that you wanted to speak to me again.”
Liana removed her torn dress and thin linen shift. The water was warm, the sponge soft. She rubbed off the worst of the grime from her face, then proceeded to wash her body, dripping on the fine carpet. The water turned brown with streaks of pink.
“I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say, back then. I only knew things would go wrong at your brother’s wedding, so Icame to warn you.”
“Does that have anything to do with your divine gifts?”
It was still night outside, behind the glass panels. A black moonless curtain dotted with stars. If Amron could see the reflection of the room—and Liana—in the window, she didn’t mind one bit.
“Yes, although not in the way you might think.”
“Can you see the future?” he asked.
There was no set future, she’d figured out as much and Morana had confirmed it. Still: “I can see possible outcomes and they are all quite bad,” she said.
She dried herself with the towel and, deciding her clothes were unsalvageable, wrapped herself in it. It barely covered her from breasts to hips. “Do you have a hairbrush?”
“Beside the bed.”
She ran her fingers through her thick locks, removing the twigs and leaves, and then brushed her hair until it fell in shiny waves that reached below her waist.
“You can turn now,” she said.
He turned and narrowed his eyes. It was an oddly piercing gaze, going through her and beyond her. “I don’t know how, but we know each other quite well, don’t we?” he said.
“Yes.” A whisper that barely slipped past her lips.
He took one step towards her, then stopped, ridiculously regal in his blue silk brocade. His shadow danced on the wall behind him. As he studied her, his fingers touched his neck distractedly, and slid under his gossamer-thin linen shirt, following his collarbone. It was an invitation he was unaware of, an intimate, absent-minded gesture she’d seen him make when he wanted her. It was an opening.
“How is that possible?” he asked.
The sight of his exposed throat distracted her.You are mine, she wanted to tell him,I’ve had you a thousand times and Iwant you a thousand more, but caution sealed her lips. Still, what she couldn’t say with words, she could express with a touch.
She closed the distance between them and took his hand. “You hate to be touched by strangers,” she said, “and yet, my touch feels good.”
His breathing turned ragged as he gently pulled away. “I don’t think this is wise.”
