Page 26

Junyi had recently passed a temple for Fuhuo and almost mistook it for an abandoned house. The floors were covered in dust, and the caving roof was hidden beneath moss. Out of pity, he had felt obliged to at least hear out the god’s grievances.

But he wasn’t sure his pity extended so far as to put up with this.

“Let us discuss later,” Fuhuo said, grabbing the wrist of the woman closest to him. “I want you to have fun, Your Highness.”

He was most decidedly not having fun; he was having difficulty avoiding the performers’ bothersome silks. “Fuhuo.”

“Nobody I’ve brought down here has ever walked away unhappy, I promise.”

“Are you telling me that you often bring people here?”

Fuhuo’s smile was sheepish, but not contrite. “That depends on what time system you’re using.”

Usually, the crown prince preferred Fuhuo’s company to others because he was not as subservient or simpering. But right now, he would not have minded if the god feared him a little more.

“Show him to one of your rooms,” Fuhuo was saying to the performers. “He has very high standards, as you might be able to tell, so—”

“We’ll get Ziyan,” they said eagerly. “She’ll be sure to take good care of him.”

“I don’t need . . .” Junyi started to protest, but for once, nobody seemed inclined to listen. And so he was ushered up the stairs, through the sliding lattice doors, into a private, candlelit chamber, surrounded on three sides by ornate folding screens. Behind him was the threat of a bed, the hangings ominously pulled open a sliver.

He cleared his throat.

Through the soft yellow panels of the folding screen, a woman’s silhouette appeared, her elegant head tilted back, a circular fan lifted and held at an angle so that it just barely touched her forehead, then her lips, then her collarbones, each brush of the fan against her skin a suggestion. He wondered if she had been taught these specific movements. The tiny beads in her hair rattled gently as she extended herself in a dancer’s position, the arc of her spine as smooth and graceful as the phoenixes from the north. Slowly, her outline sharpened as she drew closer, and against the translucent paper, he could see the willow-leaf shape of her eyes, the contours of her nose.

Even before she stepped around the screen, he knew that she was beautiful.

But it made no difference.

“I’m Ziyan,” she said. Her voice was light as her approaching footsteps. “Though you may call me whatever you wish.”

“Ziyan,” he repeated, but did not offer his own name.

“They didn’t tell me you looked like a prince,” she said with a coy smile.

He stiffened in surprise. She was flattering him, of course, but something about the way she said it suggested that it was a calculated observation. Despite the fact that he had traded his shimmering cloak for plain mortals’ robes and removed his crown and jewels, she had sensed a difference.

“They did tell me,” she continued, trailing a finger over his jaw, “that you were shy. It’s all right.” She gazed up at him from under her lashes. “I can help you feel comfortable soon enough.”

His shock rippled inward as goose bumps spread down his neck. Nobody had ever touched him like this before, and certainly not without permission.

“I am not here for—that,” he said.

She lifted her brows. “And so people always like to claim.” For a brief moment, her polished allure gave way to something harsher and cynical, the thorns hidden beneath the petals. Junyi recognized it. The exhaustion, the exasperation, forced down in the face of an audience.

“I mean it,” he insisted, feeling more compelled than ever to make himself clear. “I’m not—I have no interest in—”

“Don’t worry, you’re already here. I promise I won’t judge you.” She tapped the fan against his chest. There was hardly any pressure, but he found himself stepping back. “Is there anything that you like?”

“Anything that I . . . like?” All his speeches in the palace, all his studying, and he could do nothing except echo her words. He felt slightly dizzy. Her perfume was different from what the other performers wore; it was cooler and darker and not so overpowering, layered with notes of osmanthus and other flowers, like a painting that revealed new details every time you looked at it.

“If you don’t want to say it aloud, I suppose I’ll find out anyhow,” she murmured, and tugged at the ribbons around her robes.

He fixed his gaze on the ceiling, but with only the muffled music downstairs as distraction, he could distinctly hear the sound of falling fabric. It was difficult to believe that he was in this absurd situation. His fingers twitched. Still staring up at the crisscrossing beams, he removed the cloak from around his own shoulders and held it out to her.

She didn’t take it. “What are you doing?” she asked, almost suspicious.

“I am imploring you to put on some clothes,” he said. When she made no movement, he closed his eyes and felt his way forward through the air, stopping when the warmth of her breathing tickled his cheeks. He was much too aware of himself as he draped the fabric over her bare shoulders.