“Dance with me,” Anoor asked.
“I said no the first, second, and third times, why would this be any different?”
“Because you’ve had more to drink.”
“No, you’ve had more to drink.” Sylah narrowed her eyes. “Who were you dancing with before?”
“Oh, I don’t know, some distant cousin of the imir of Jin-Noon—they all want to court me, you see.” Anoor leaned in as she shimmied by Sylah’s side. Sylah could smell the sandalwood oil she used. “They like to get closer to my mother, it’s all very fickle. Certainly not romantic.” Anoor flicked an errant curl away from her eye and surveyed Sylah, though her expression was unreadable.
“Must be a hard life,” Sylah drawled.
“Oh, it is.” Her smile dropped.
Her self-pity was like a slap in Sylah’s face. “Maiden’s tits, would you just leave me alone? I came to the party like you wished. I’m doing everything we agreed on and more. Can you just leave me to drink my wine in peace?” Sylah didn’t feel bad for the hurt that showed on Anoor’s face. She was Anoor’s captive, after all. Once Anoor had shuffled away, her scent lingered. Sylah downed the last of her drink.
The edges of her vision had pleasantly blurred, but she craved the ecstasy of a joba seed. She fingered the seed in her pocket, which she now carried with her everywhere. It was a source of both comfort and pain. Comfort because she could hold it at any moment. Pain because she knew she could take it at any moment.
“Sylah.” Jond’s voice made her jump. Beads of sweat peppered his brow. She had spotted him on the dance floor a few times. He leaned in for a hug, and Sylah hugged him back with the ferocity of someone hanging onto a float. He smelled of basil and jasmine.
“Well done today.” Sylah murmured into his ear.
“Thanks.” He held her at arm’s length. “You look incredible.”
“Three meals a day does that to a person.” Sylah had gained a marginal amount of weight since being Anoor’s trainer. The joba seeds had been her breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the drug stealing her appetite. Now the nausea was gone, she enjoyed food like she hadn’t before.
“No, I mean”—his eyes traveled up and down her body, scoring her with his gaze—“you look amazing.”
Sylah grimaced but bowed her head in thanks. Her hand went to the cuff on her arm, warm from her skin.
Jond looked good too, really good. His slim-fitting suit hinted at the muscle underneath, and his strong jawline and dark eyes only added to his allure. Jond had always had the softest hair, each curl so perfectly formed she almost reached out to twirl one. He noticed her look and quirked an eyebrow.
“Is there something on my face?”
“A faint picture of smugness, but that’s all.”
He grinned and pulled out a flask from his pocket.
“I figured out Papa’s recipe.”
“What? For the firerum he used to make?”
“Yes, so drink it slow, it’s stronger than the shit they import in from Jin-Sukar.” Anoor twirled out of the corner of Sylah’s eye, and she downed the entire flask in three gulps. “Or don’t.” He shrugged and waved at a Ghosting servant to top up her wineglass.
Sylah had looked for Hassa already: they had only seen each other a few times throughout the last few weeks. Anoor’s training and her chambermaid duties took up much of Sylah’s time. The spare strike she did get she spent with Jond teaching him bloodwerk. Besides, Hassa always seemed to be rushing from one place to another.
“Thank you,” Sylah said, looking into the Ghosting’s eyes as she filled Sylah’s glass to the brim. The Ghosting smiled faintly as she drifted back into the recess of the veranda, waiting to be summoned again.
When Sylah didn’t speak again, Jond followed her line of sight to the dance floor.
“She did well today,” Jond said.
“Yes. The other trials won’t come so easily.” Sylah rubbed her brow. The dance floor was getting very hazy.
“You’ll do it, you’ll get her through.”
“I hope so.” Sylah wasn’t so sure; they had started training for the tactics trial, but military strategy wasn’t coming easy to Anoor.
“Thank you for doing this for us—”