Followed by Fros(72)

When Aamina came to my chambers, I told her I was ill, and I surely looked it. She brought me water and broth and left me to sleep, which I did—in and out, hardly able to tell dream from reality. Waking or sleeping, I thought of Lo. And Mordan, Sadriel, my parents, my sister, Ashlen, and Euwan. I thought of Imad and Zareed, and the weights on my arms continued to tug me back and forth, cracking the foundation that held me.

Hours passed this way. Aamina brought me more food, but I had little appetite and could barely stomach a mouthful. I closed my eyes and saw Lo crouching before me, felt his fingers on my jaw. I traced the touch. I saw him at the front doors of the palace, meeting my gaze with such . . . pain. How I loved him. How it hurt.

After some time I stood at my window, looking out onto Mac’Hliah, which glowed with the late afternoon. I opened the window and reached out my hand as far as I could, past the short eaves so that sunlight could dance on my fingers. Hot air crept over the windowsill and into my room. Again I thought of Lo’s wish.

Retracting my hand, I turned back to my room and spied my saddlebags at the edge of my bed, packed and ready for the trip to Euwan. I knelt beside them and searched their contents until I found the last book Lo had given me: Garen’s Wish. I opened its worn spine and turned its aged pages, then read through the story again, lingering once more on the passage Lo had highlighted.

Garen had wanted to know the wish of his heart so badly he’d asked the genie for the answer, knowing very well it could be something unobtainable. He had risked everything for the chance of happiness.

Lo had given up so much for me. Could I not take this one chance—this one risk—for him?

After shutting the book, I changed into my mauve dress and brushed my hair, not bothering with the head scarf. I looked at myself in the small mirror over the empty dresser. I looked tired but healthy, peach colored and golden haired, green eyes free of violet bags, pink lips instead of blue. I looked at myself and committed the image to memory, for I knew it might be the last time I saw myself this way. I planned to do one last, selfish thing, even if it cost me everything else.

This, I did for me.

I walked through the hallways, my steps in beat with my pounding heart. I stopped a young serving boy once to ask where the captain of the guard was, but he did not know. Still, he gave me directions to Lo’s quarters, and after some searching I found them in the basement of the palace, about as far from my own room as one could get without stepping outside.

Narrow windows close to the ceiling illuminated the long hallway carpeted in red, doors lining either side of it. I passed one guard whom I recognized and nodded to him briefly, then began counting doors.

Seven, eight, nine. Lo’s room.

I lifted my hand to knock, but bit my lip, hesitant. How to say what I felt inside? How did one put the fear of winter and the hope of music into words? How could I possibly explain the torrent of desperation and love eddying in my soul? The absolute adoration that blinded me?

I twisted the doorknob slowly, pushed the door open, and peered into the room.

Like the hallway, the room was dark save for the evening sunlight that filtered through narrow windows against the ceiling, these ones silhouetted by the plants that lined the palace’s base. For a moment I thought the room unoccupied, but my eyes made out the form sleeping on the bed on top of the covers. I recognized Lo’s earrings.

After shutting the door behind me, I tiptoed to his bedside. He didn’t wear a shirt, and in the dim lighting I found the long scar on his ribs he had described to me. It certainly didn’t look like a shallow cut. He had others as well—a faint line to the right of his navel, puckered tissue almost hidden by an arm that looked like a poorly treated arrow wound. There were other, smaller marks almost too faint to see, crisscrossing this way and that like cat scratches.

I sat on the edge of his mattress, soft and slow, but Lo was a trained soldier and captain of the guard, and he awoke easily. Startled, because he shot upright and almost knocked heads with me.

He blinked several times. “Misa?”

I pursed my lips, but the smile came anyway. Hesitantly I reached toward him and touched his shoulder, the skin smooth and warm. I ran three fingertips down his arm, over firm muscle and into the crook of his elbow.

My pulse pounded in my head. I shivered.

He watched me, wordless.

“There were so many times,” I whispered, tracing my way back to his shoulder, “that I wished I could touch you, even if only in thanks or play.” My fingers crawled up his neck, grazed the short, dark hair on his jaw, caressed smooth, full lips. I felt ready to burst, as though my very spirit pushed against my skin.

He lifted his hand and clasped mine, then kissed each fingertip. His hands were rough and calloused, but so very warm.

I gently pulled from his grasp, touched either side of his face, and pushed my fingers into the thick ringlets of his hair. Smelled the sweet sandalwood that lingered on his skin. My heart settled and for once beat steady.

“I love you,” I whispered, leaning until our noses touched. Tilting my head, I carefully brushed my lips against his.

His hands found my shoulders and pulled me into him, pressing his mouth against mine, the smell of cardamom and sandalwood flooding my senses. I kissed him, knotting my hands into his soft hair.

I kissed him, and I stayed warm.





CHAPTER 29


Three Months Later