Page 26 of Dance of Stars and Ashes

“I have,” she said carefully, realizing he was not letting her down at all. “I’ll be honest, I’m still not sure. Don’t you want some time to settle into this role and feel things out before making big decisions about your life?”

His expression hardened. “Zarya, we almost died a few nights ago. That attack pressed upon me the importance of seizing the moment. We might not have that time left, and what would be more tragic than not grasping at every pleasurable opportunity while we can?”

He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, his meaning clear.

“I think…” she said, stalling for a moment to sort through her thoughts.

The truth was, she had felt something for him, but she’d come to realize those feelings were gone. Or at least, they’d diminished. Whatever bright-eyed wonder she’d experienced had been about the exhilaration of her freedom when everything had been fresh and new and exciting. He was the first man to ever pay her any attention in that way, and she’d turned towards it like flowers drinking in rays of sunshine.

He didn’t make her knees weak like she’d always imagined when she’d read about it in her books—at least not anymore—but she wondered if she was being foolish. Believing in a fantasy that might never be real. Those were stories. Those weren’t life. Still, she didn’t feel she could say yes to what he was asking.

“I think I’m not sure yet,” she said, cursing herself for her cowardice. She was avoiding the question, and she knew it. “I need to be honest with you about that. You wouldn’t want me doing something I’m not one hundred percent comfortable with.”

She said the words as the question they were, hoping they’d allow her a bit more time to process.

Vikram’s shoulders slumped, and he ran his fingers through his damp hair. “Of course not. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have cornered you like this again.”

“It’s okay,” she said, squeezing his forearm. “I didn’t feel cornered.”

Vikram dropped her hand and took a step back. “I should return to the party. Can I see you soon? Maybe we can spend some time together, just the two of us?”

“Sure,” Zarya said, though she wasn’t certain she wanted that, either. What she did know was that she didn’t want to be responsible for that wounded expression on his face again.

“Wonderful,” he said with a smile before he leaned down and pressed his lips to her temple, allowing them to linger for a moment. Then, he gave her one more look before he turned and left.

Zarya counted off a few seconds and then followed, emerging from the recessed alcove before coming to a stop.

Rabin stood in the middle of the hall, his stance rigid.

She watched as Vikram passed his brother, their gazes focused on one another. Neither of them spoke, but a thousand undeclared accusations echoed through the hall, anyway.

After Vikram passed Rabin, he turned to enter the salon with a last glance back in Zarya’s direction. She stood frozen in the hall as Rabin’s gaze creaked to her. Her cheeks warmed, and she wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt like she’d been caught doing something illicit.

Rabin took a slow step towards her, but she retreated, raising a hand.

“No,” she said. “You—stay away from me.”

He stopped, his large frame hunched towards her like a jaguar waiting to pounce. He seemed to vibrate with the effort of holding still.

Then, Zarya turned and walked away, casting one look over her shoulder to find him still in the same position, watching her with an expression like thunder. She rounded the corner, relieved to be away from him and very much noticing how her knees were so weak she could barely stand.

EIGHT

Zarya knocked on the door to the queen’s apartments. After a scuffling sound on the other side, it swung open. A woman in a green sari beaded with silver bowed with her hands pressed together before she turned and gestured for Zarya to follow.

They entered a brightly lit salon filled with female courtiers dressed in their most ornate clothing. Beads and crystal and luxurious fabric, along with a heavy cloud of perfume, hung in the air like curtains.

In the center sat Amrita, her left hand stretched out while a vanshaj woman, wearing the white salwar kameez of the palace servants, traced intricate details on her palms using a tube of dark brown paste made of henna.

“Zarya,” Amrita said, her expression dreamy and distant. “Come. I’ve arranged for you to have your mehndi done. This is an important part of the transformation ritual.”

“For me?” Zarya asked, settling onto a pillow beside Amrita and holding out her hand as a second vanshaj woman took it and immediately set to work.

“Well, no,” Amrita said. “For me, but it’s also traditional for those closest to the queen to have theirs done. Plus, it’s fun and pretty, and I want you to have some, too.”

Zarya smiled and settled back as someone handed her a small glass of wine. She sipped while she surveyed the room, noting faces she recognized. Many of the nobility chose to live at Jai Mahal when not at their country homes. Some had also lost them to the blight, and there had been no opportunity to rebuild.

“How are things going?” Zarya asked.