Page 65 of Storm of Ink and Blood

The book said you could also create almost anything, including clothing and objects, explaining how Rabin had conjured the rug to protect her feet from the snow.

She imagined herself in a light but beautifully decorated lehenga, the silver beading sparkling in her mind. And then she pictured herself stepping from this room into the mind plane. Since she was the masatara, her paramadhar couldn’t refuse the summons. She could, however, refuse his if she chose, though that also required practice. It was harder to do when she was asleep, and so far, it was clear he’d used that fact to his advantage.

But it was late and she did hope she wasn’t pulling him from a precarious situation.

Standing with her hands balled into fists, she imagined every detail, trying to recall the smells and every sound. There was a shift, like a bend in the atmosphere, and when she opened her eyes, she found herself standing in the empty ballroom of the Ravanas’ home.

The soft music she’d fabricated played from some unknown source, and Rabin stood at the end of the room with his back facing her. There were no shadows where he could hide tonight. She’d selected his attire to coordinate with hers, opting for a sherwani of the deepest midnight blue embroidered with silver threads over the collar and wrists.

She waited as he slowly turned around, his eyebrow already arched.

He looked down at himself and then at her. “I see you’ve been doing some reading.”

Zarya said nothing, simply returning an imperious look of her own.

“Why here?” he asked as he scanned the room.

“I don’t know. It just came to me.”

He pressed his mouth together. “I had some happy times in this room,” he said softly.

“I’m glad. And I’m sorry. I worried that it would be painful, but it was the first place I thought of.”

The corner of his mouth teased up. “I also brought you to your father’s home. Perhaps this is only fair.”

“That wasn’t⁠—”

He lifted a hand. “I know that. I’m glad you’ve been to this house. This was once my home, despite the memories. Vikram and I were friends once.”

He uttered the last statement with such sadness, and it was clear how much he regretted their troubled relationship.

“Do you want to dance?” he asked, sweeping his hands over himself. “It seems a shame not to ask.”

“Sure,” Zarya said. She wasn’t positive that’s what she’d intended by choosing this place, but they were dressed up with music playing, and it was the next logical thing to do.

He walked towards her, his boots clicking against the marble. Zarya waited with her breath tight in her throat, trying not to be overwhelmed by his presence without much success. How could she ever feel anything less than ensnared by that dark, burning gaze?

When he was but a distant thought present only in her mind, she could pretend she wasn’t completely helpless under his spell, but witnessing him in the flesh, it was impossible to ignore.

He reached out his hand, and she looked at it for a moment.

“Do you remember the first time we ever spoke?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Why do you think we met inside that egg of all places?” she asked, referring to the deadly shower of falling orbs when she’d broken her arm while picnicking with Vikram.

He shook his head. “I’m not sure if that’s where we were exactly, but I think whatever magic lived inside triggered our connection.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps you haven’t read that far yet,” he said. “The connection needs a powerful activation to wake up, and we know there was strong magic in those orbs. That’s one reason why it’s so rare.”

“But we met before that,” she said. “Sort of.”

“Apparently, we could enter the mind plane at any point, but we couldn’t actually speak with one another until the link was initiated.”

Zarya took a step and then laid her hand on his. “I see.”