‘It’s useless,’ he lamented, dropping his face onto the table. ‘I can’t do it.’
The sewing machine started running, even though he wasn’t touching it, and spools of ribbons unraveled on his desk. Snatches of lace flitted in the air. His magic seemed to be malfunctioning, reaching for things he couldn’t quite control.
‘Oh dear,’ she said, going to his side. She touched his shoulder, but he made no sound, so she moved her hand to his face, turning his head so she could look at him properly. His expression was miserable.
‘Azam,’ she said gently. She cupped his cheek, and the sewing machine stopped. The ribbons fell to the floor, along with the lace. ‘I’m sure we’ll find something useful.’
‘Go ahead and look,’ he despaired.
She took his sketchbook, paging through it and the pieces spread across his desk. She folded the corner of some designs that had good elements, pointing them out to him. ‘The hem on this is nice,’ she said. ‘And I like the sleeves of this one!’
He sighed. ‘It can’t just benice. It needs to beperfect.’
She thought back to what Ximena had said: she was taking a risk with Azam. She needed something groundbreaking.
Sonya looked through the sketchbook with that in mind, until she stumbled on a page that didn’t have a dress at all. She sucked in a breath, holding the sketchbook with one hand and touching the page with the other.
It was a sketch of her.
It looked to be from a few days before the opening. In it, she was sitting on the grass, hair a little windswept, reading. Her eyes were lidded, a small smile on her face. She looked so happy and at peace.
It was unlike any portrait she’d ever had made of her. There was such care and attention and…something else. It was like he really sawher, her spirit. Royal portraits were meant to make them look regal and ethereal and grand, but in this, she didn’t look like a princess; she just looked like a girl. Like herself.
Azam saw what she was looking at and groaned, covering his face with his hands. ‘As if things couldn’t get worse,’ he muttered, embarrassed.
‘I love it!’ she said.
He removed his hands from his face, looking at her hesitantly. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes! I—’ She stopped when her gaze fell to the scar he had sketched beneath her jaw. Inadvertently, she frowned.
‘You hate it,’ he said, face downturned. ‘I’m sorry.’
He reached for the sketchbook, but she held on. ‘No!’ she said. ‘It’s just…it’s the scar. You noticed it.’ She pointed at the little indent under her jaw.
‘Sonya, I notice everything about you,’ he said. She grew quiet, and his gaze intensified, setting her skin ablaze. He cleared his throat. ‘What is it from?’
‘It looks so much worse than it was,’ she said, turning her neck to show him. ‘I got bitten by a bug and it got infected. I got sick very easily as a child.’ She touched the bump of the scar, exasperated.
Azam reached a hand out, index finger touching the raised skin. His other fingers grazed her throat, and she shivered.
‘I wish the scar had a better story—that it was from something more interesting,’ she said. The heroes in all her favorite novels had scars with interesting stories behind them.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘You’re interesting enough.’
He seemed to relax, talking with her, and she knew what he needed. ‘Come on, up,’ she said. ‘You need a break. You’ve been at it since yesterday.’
‘No, I can’t,’ he said. ‘There isn’t enough time!’
‘You need to clear your mind! Let’s go down to the lake for a swim.’
He seemed tempted but then glanced back at his desk, the half-finished sketches and the many more crumpled pieces of paper.
‘Come on!’ she said. ‘Maybe you’ll be inspired, and you promised to teach me how to swim, remember?’
He released a long breath. ‘Alright.’
Azam led the way but he was very quiet, a stark difference tothe last time they had gone to the lake. He was clearly agitated and tense—not his usual self—and she frowned.
