fingers, soft as smoke, and faded, suddenly shy beneath her scrutiny.
He made a sound behind her, as if wishing he could. “It’s the same as a pen across papyrus. I control the pen but cannot feel the bleed of its ink.”
She turned, brushing against him, grinning when he drew a sharp breath. She knew he could read her, knew he could see in her gaze that she accepted every part of him, every dark shard. His mouth trailed down her neck and fell to her collarbone. She gasped.
“What was that?” one of the drivers asked.
Zafira froze—or tried to. Every part of her pulsed with need, tangible and hot. Nasir’s lips curved into a dark smile, trailing lower, his bottom lip brushing away the neck of her dress. She bit her tongue against a sound. Burrowed her fingers into his hair. Sweet snow, this man. These feelings. She shifted her hips and his hands fell, gripping her tight against him with a barely audible groan.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there were ghosts in this place,” another one answered. The drivers untethered their horses. She heard them mount, she heard the whip that made her cringe, and then they were gone.
“If only they knew,” Nasir whispered, pulling away.
“Wait,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
His fingers flexed in restraint. He looked at her feet. “They’ll be coming to unload the carts.”
Of course. There was work to be done. “Later,” something possessed her to say.
“Forever, Zafira,” he said softly. “Forever. You need only say so.”
He lifted his eyes to hers.
Yes, she wanted to whisper. Yes, the Jawarat echoed, but Umm’s hollow eyes flashed in her thoughts, and then Nasir was turning away and sliding open a door and disappearing into a dark hall.
Zafira released a breath.
Her mind was abuzz. She could barely see her surroundings, barely hear anything over her pulse and this terrible thirst inside her.
“Is there no quicker way to get there?” she asked when Nasir returned.
They paused as a trio of servants passed, one clutching a dallah while the other two held platters and trays, the whiff of the dates, grape molasses, and carob used to prepare jallab making her mouth water.
“Usually, I would scale the walls, but—” He gave her wound a pointed look.
She swallowed a twinge of embarrassment.
They darted down the corridor and ducked into a tiny closet. He pulled aside a slab of wood, unveiling a steep staircase.
“Makes it easier for servants during big banquets,” he explained, taking the steps two at a time. “There are two places our caliph might be.”
She hurried after him, nearly toppling them both when he stopped at a narrow door and pressed his ear to the wood with utter stillness. With a slight frown, he eased it open, and she peered over his shoulder into a room.
A bedroom. A jewel of a place she felt a surge of diffidence to behold. It was built beneath the curve of the main dome; the high, angled ceiling painted with a sea of stars interspersed by a mosaic of tiles and calligraphy that told the story of the Sisters of Old. This was her room, Zafira realized: the Sister who had claimed Sarasin long ago.
Like a veil from a crown, the sheerest silver gossamer fell over the low and ample bed, another arch at its fore, recessed and ornate. The sheets were made of starlight and dreams, darkness plentiful despite the gold of the afternoon stretching shapely rays through the decadent mashrabiya. She’d seen her fair share of the enclosed latticed balconies, but never one so intricate, many of the carvings fitted with stained glass that told a story itself.
Nasir was watching her. “He’s not here,” he said unnecessarily, in that voice that looped with the darkness and time spun once more.
She had missed this. Her fascination being a thing to witness with rapt attention.
A few steps away, he stopped again, and she knew. The ifrit who had stolen the face of Muzaffar was on the other side of this door. The newly appointed Caliph of Sarasin.
“History repeats itself,” he mused, lifting his hand to the latch.
The last time he was here, he had killed the mortal caliph. Everyone in Arawiya knew this, though Zafira couldn’t connect that faceless hashashin with the prince she knew now.
Was this time any better? Could they justify the caliph’s death simply because he bled different? Yes, she told herself. The ifrit were the reason Deen had died. The reason she had nearly died. Fury ignited her blood, sudden and bright. She would kill them all. She would end the Lion and then make the streets black with their blood.