how that display gets me on theguest list?” he asked, taking the clasp in hand.
“All courtesans are allowed to invite a lover to stay in their private chambers during a performance,” she said. “Tonight, that man is you.” His fingers slipped, and Laila tensed.
“I haven’t forgotten the promise we made,” she said lightly.
A year and a half ago, he’d told her, “We can’t do this again.”
And she’d replied, “I know.”
He had aHouse to reclaim, a whole future to lift out of the dark. He’d had girls in his bed before, but nothing like that night. Nothing that made him, for a moment, forget who he was. Who he was supposed to be.
No fancy was worth his future.
Since then, neither of them had mentioned the promise they’d struck. Both of them pretended that it never happened, and they’d succeeded. They could work together.They could be friends. They could move on.
“This is just a planted rumor,” said Laila quickly. “I’ll be sure to appear with someone else the next night and thus free you of any association.”
He didn’t like how his thoughts snagged on the word “tonight.”
As he finished clasping her necklace, his thumb brushed against the nape of her neck. Laila shivered, leaning forward. The top of the longscar next to her spine peeked out over the collar.
“Your hands are frigid,” she said, scowling. “What kind of lover has cold hands?”
“One who makes up for temperature with talent.”
He meant it jokingly, but his voice came out too rough. Laila turned in her seat. Unthinkingly, his eyes went to her mouth. She’d gotten ready in a hurry. A faint dust of white caught the edge of her red lip. Sugardust. Had she been baking when time got away from her? Or was it on purpose? An invitation for someone else to taste?
A burst of red light on his desk made them jump apart.
Laila startled, then winced. Her hand was stuck to the edge of the desk.
“I must have touched it by accident.”
S é verin’s desk was Forged to answer only to his handprint. If anyone else touched it while it was activated,they would be stuck. He walked over, pressing his palm to the jade table. The red glow subsided, and Laila snatched back her hand. S é verin didn’t know what to say. The air was so full of her there was barely enough to draw into his lungs.
“The words you’re looking for, Majnun , are ‘thank you,’” said Laila, rising out of the chair.
And then she headed to the door. Right before Laila reached forthe handle, she touched her choker. Her Forged headdress unraveled, twining sinuously across her face and stealing whatever expression had flickered there. Once more, S é verin sat at his desk.
The words you’re looking for, Majnun, are “thank you . ”
Laila was almost always right, a fact that he would not admit to her even on pain of death.
But today she was wrong.
8
LAIL A
Laila was beginning to panic.
First, she had less than two hours before her performance at the Palais des R ê ves. Second, she hadn’t picked up her new gown at the couturier, and there was bound to be a line for her favorite tailor. Third, she could not find her Forged choker anywhere, and she refused to leave without it. The necklace held her peacock headdress, and if she didn’twear it, someone might recognize her.
Laila tossed aside one of the many pillows on her bed, then shook the gauzy drapes of her canopy.
“Where is it?” she said aloud. “Did you take it?”
“Why do I always get the blame?” demanded Tristan.
He was sprawled facedown on her bedroom floor. One of her pillows was propped under his chin as he painstakingly arranged her whole perfume collection in aline in front of him. Laila recognized every bottle except one, a glass sphere holding a number of black marbles.
“You could make yourself useful and help me,” she grumbled. “What’re you doing in here anyway? You have your own room.”
“I’m researching,” he shot back.
“Can you research
“All courtesans are allowed to invite a lover to stay in their private chambers during a performance,” she said. “Tonight, that man is you.” His fingers slipped, and Laila tensed.
“I haven’t forgotten the promise we made,” she said lightly.
A year and a half ago, he’d told her, “We can’t do this again.”
And she’d replied, “I know.”
He had aHouse to reclaim, a whole future to lift out of the dark. He’d had girls in his bed before, but nothing like that night. Nothing that made him, for a moment, forget who he was. Who he was supposed to be.
No fancy was worth his future.
Since then, neither of them had mentioned the promise they’d struck. Both of them pretended that it never happened, and they’d succeeded. They could work together.They could be friends. They could move on.
“This is just a planted rumor,” said Laila quickly. “I’ll be sure to appear with someone else the next night and thus free you of any association.”
He didn’t like how his thoughts snagged on the word “tonight.”
As he finished clasping her necklace, his thumb brushed against the nape of her neck. Laila shivered, leaning forward. The top of the longscar next to her spine peeked out over the collar.
“Your hands are frigid,” she said, scowling. “What kind of lover has cold hands?”
“One who makes up for temperature with talent.”
He meant it jokingly, but his voice came out too rough. Laila turned in her seat. Unthinkingly, his eyes went to her mouth. She’d gotten ready in a hurry. A faint dust of white caught the edge of her red lip. Sugardust. Had she been baking when time got away from her? Or was it on purpose? An invitation for someone else to taste?
A burst of red light on his desk made them jump apart.
Laila startled, then winced. Her hand was stuck to the edge of the desk.
“I must have touched it by accident.”
S é verin’s desk was Forged to answer only to his handprint. If anyone else touched it while it was activated,they would be stuck. He walked over, pressing his palm to the jade table. The red glow subsided, and Laila snatched back her hand. S é verin didn’t know what to say. The air was so full of her there was barely enough to draw into his lungs.
“The words you’re looking for, Majnun , are ‘thank you,’” said Laila, rising out of the chair.
And then she headed to the door. Right before Laila reached forthe handle, she touched her choker. Her Forged headdress unraveled, twining sinuously across her face and stealing whatever expression had flickered there. Once more, S é verin sat at his desk.
The words you’re looking for, Majnun, are “thank you . ”
Laila was almost always right, a fact that he would not admit to her even on pain of death.
But today she was wrong.
8
LAIL A
Laila was beginning to panic.
First, she had less than two hours before her performance at the Palais des R ê ves. Second, she hadn’t picked up her new gown at the couturier, and there was bound to be a line for her favorite tailor. Third, she could not find her Forged choker anywhere, and she refused to leave without it. The necklace held her peacock headdress, and if she didn’twear it, someone might recognize her.
Laila tossed aside one of the many pillows on her bed, then shook the gauzy drapes of her canopy.
“Where is it?” she said aloud. “Did you take it?”
“Why do I always get the blame?” demanded Tristan.
He was sprawled facedown on her bedroom floor. One of her pillows was propped under his chin as he painstakingly arranged her whole perfume collection in aline in front of him. Laila recognized every bottle except one, a glass sphere holding a number of black marbles.
“You could make yourself useful and help me,” she grumbled. “What’re you doing in here anyway? You have your own room.”
“I’m researching,” he shot back.
“Can you research
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