He glances back at the seam of light along the ground, then takes my hand and draws me to the tent’s center, away from the walls. “They can hear us.”
I swallow. “She was here,” I whisper. “On the stage. She—she stopped everything. Time. The crowd. You.” My throat tightens, the words spilling out too fast. “It was like the world froze, except for her and me. She said the Tower chose me, that I wasn’t ready. Then she left. I chased her all the way to the edge of camp, but she disappeared.”
Declan studies me in silence, his brows drawn tight, the flickering lanterns throwing shadows across his face. “You’re sure it wasn’t—”
“I know how it sounds. But magick here… It’s real. I saw it. Felt it. There’s no logical explanation forwhat happened. The Wheel of Fortune card… It’s alive somehow. It’s what brought us here.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “If that’s true…” He exhales slowly. “Then is she the key? Does Fortune control it—the magick?”
“She has to.” I sink onto the edge of the bed and tear the flatbread in half. “She literally stopped time,” I say around a mouthful. “She has to be the one who can send us home.”
Declan picks up the rest of the flatbread and folds it in half before taking a bite.
I pop a roasted chunk of carrot into my mouth as I trace a finger over the card’s gold edges. “I don’t know how to pretend this is normal.” I shake my head and shove the card out of view under the nearest pillow. “Every time I think I’ve caught my breath, something else happens.”
Declan stops in front of me, his shadow falling across my lap. “We’ll find her again,” he says firmly. “Fortune is drawn to you. You’ve seen her twice in less than a day. Meanwhile everyone else we’ve asked hasn’t seen her at all.”
He lowers himself to one knee in front of me and closes his hand over mine where it’s fisted in my lap. The heat of his palm quiets the restless tremor buzzing through my body. He’s close enough that I can smell the salt of sweat on his skin and the faint earthy tang of dust and smoke clinging to him.
“But until we do,” he continues, voice quieter now, “we keep acting the way they expect us to. We perform, we stay alive, and we figure out how this place works.”
I force out a small, wobbly smile. “Right. Think positively. We can do this.”
“That’s the spirit.” His mouth curves, and he squeezes my hand before releasing it and rising back to his full height. The space between us fills with cool air, and I hate how quickly I miss the solid warmth of him—the quiet steadiness he carries while everything around us continues to spin.
“You were really good onstage,” I say. “Like, surprisingly good.”
He shrugs, eyes darting anywhere but mine, and in the low, flickering light I swear there’s the faintest flush creeping up his neck. “I may or may not have been Edward one Halloween,” he says, voice dry but softer than usual. “And Jacob the next.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “So this performance was years in the making.”
“Something like that.”
I open my mouth to tease him again, but a yawn steals the moment.
“We should wash off this glitter and get some sleep.” He crosses to the trunk, rummages through it, and pulls out two silk robes—gold for me, deep burgundy for him.
“Is it too much to hope that we’ll each get our own private shower?” I ask, clutching the gold robe.
Declan parts the tent flap, the corners of his mouth twitching. “In a kingdom where everyone performs for a living? I wouldn’t count on privacy being part of the package.”
The bathing tent sits a few aisles over, humming with voices and candlelight. People slip in and out, wrapped in robes, steam curling around them. The air smells faintly of myrrh and citrus.
Inside, the ground is packed, wet sand that shimmerswith leftover suds. Barrels line the perimeter, each brimming with water and fitted with ladles that glint in the steamy air. Smaller amphorae wait nearby, their clay mouths chipped from use, and soft towels hang from carved wooden racks.
The tent is empty, and we claim a spot in the corner. Without prompting, Declan turns his back to me and positions himself between me and the rest of the tent, broad shoulders angled just enough to block the view if anyone should enter.
My fingers fumble at the ties of my dress. The fabric slides down, whispering against my skin before pooling at my feet. I peel off my underwear, kick the pile of clothes aside, and try not to think about the fact that my heart is pounding loud enough for him to hear.
He peels off his shirt, and a fine dusting of glitter drifts from his shoulders like starlight. I try not to stare at the way the muscles shift beneath his skin as he takes off his pants, the play of light across his shoulders, the faint trail of glitter clinging to the curve of his spine and shimmering down his ass.
I fail spectacularly.
“Are you going to keep watching,” he asks over his shoulder voice, teasing but careful, “or help me get this glitter off?”
“Bossy,” I mutter, rolling my eyes even though my face is on fire. I grab a rough cloth from a nearby rack and dip it into the soapy water. Bubbles burst between my fingers as I wring it out and step closer.
I move slowly, dragging the suds across the wide span of his back, following the ridges of muscle, the slopeof his shoulders. Soap and glitter swirl together, sliding down his skin in iridescent streaks.
