“Like your precious Rani?” Jehanne asked crossly in a mercurial mood shift that was so familiar it made me laugh through my tears.

“You are jealous!” I said to her.

She smiled again, taking my hand. “Yes. And a bit cheated that I didn’t have the time to grow into this wise and gracious queen you dreamed I would become.” Watching me beneath her lashes, she traced the intricate patterns of henna on my hand and forearm with the tip of one finger, a touch that was at once impossibly delicate and maddeningly arousing, making my skin prickle.

I took a deep breath. “Jehanne…”

Her blue-grey eyes opened wide and ingenuous. “You promised you would not say no to me. And I do not know when I will be able to reach you again, Moirin.”

“Aye, and I’m getting married tomorrow!” I protested.

“Tomorrow is tomorrow.” She stroked my skin with that exquisite touch. “And I am here. You used to say that to me, remember? I am here. It always comforted me. Will you not stay?”

I hesitated.

Jehanne’s voice broke slightly, breaking my heart. “Please? It’s so very lonely where I am.”

And because I could no more resist her than the ocean’s tides could resist the pull of the moon, I gave in to her as I had done a thousand times before; and even though it was a dream, it felt so very real, my lady Jehanne warm and alive in my arms, naked and silken, the intoxicating scent of her skin making me dizzy with longing, Jehanne winding her arms around my neck, kissing me with consummate skill and desperate ardor, whispering my name like a prayer.

I stayed; and this time the dream did not cast me out. In my dream, I fell asleep holding her.

I awoke to morning light and an empty bed, the linens rumpled.

Jehanne’s scent lingered in the room.

I sighed and arose, my heart at once heavy with guilt and light with gladness, my body languid with the aftermath of pleasure.

The Rani Amrita and her attendants bustled into the chamber, laying out the bridal finery I was to wear-the crimson sari embroidered and trimmed with gold, the elaborate jewelry.

“So!” my lady Amrita said brightly to me. “The day is here at last. Are you ready to wed your bad boy, my dear one?”

With guilt, regret, and a surety of purpose, I put my dream of Jehanne aside. It was real and not-real at the same time. It was a promise of things to come; but they were things that had not happened yet.

“Yes,” I said. “I am.”

EIGHTY-TWO

It was a glorious day.

The Rani’s attendants helped me bathe and prepare, rubbing fragrant oils into my skin, brushing my hair until it gleamed, painting my eyelids with kohl. They helped me don the gorgeous crimson and gold sari, pinning the folds in place. Amrita insisted on adorning me with jewelry herself, sliding gold bangles onto my wrists, fastening tinkling anklets in place, pinning a gold filigree headpiece to my hair.

When she had finished, she clapped her hands together in delight. “You are the perfect bride, Moirin!”

I had a fleeting memory of my dream and smiled ruefully. “Not quite, I fear, but surely you have done your best, my lady.”

She fussed with the filigree pendant hanging on my brow. “You are perfectly yourself, dear one, and that is all that matters. And you look very, very lovely.”

I hugged her, holding her close. “Thank you, Amrita.”

She returned my embrace, then released me. “You’re very welcome. Now, do not muss your sari.”

For some reason, her fussing and mothering made me laugh aloud. Amrita gave me an inquiring glance, and I shook my head, unable to explain. All I could do was gaze at her with a heart filled with a complicated mixture of affection, remembering all the many kindnesses she had shown me.

“Bad girl.” She tapped my lips lovingly with one finger. “Do not look at me so. You are getting married today, remember?”

I smiled at her. “Oh, I do.”

Once the preparations were finished, we adjourned to one of the palace’s towers to watch the bridegroom’s procession approach. The sun was high overhead, the sky was a bright, cloudless blue, and the spring air was warm and balmy.

I was getting married today.

It was an exhilarating thought-and a frightening one, too. But my heart beat surely and steadily and my diadh-anam called to Bao’s, measuring his progress toward me. I felt him long before I saw him, resplendent in a crimson tunic and breeches, riding astride a white horse garlanded with flowers, his head held high, a crimson turban atop his unruly hair, gold hoops gleaming in his ears, his irrepressible grin in place. Hasan Dar and a handful of guards surrounded him, Sudhakar and Ravindra among them, cheering and singing love songs. The sight made my heart swell inside my chest.

My magpie, my peasant-boy, my Tatar prince.

Gods, I did love him very much.

How had that happened?

Bao glanced up at me as I leaned out of the turret, his grin widening, his almond-shaped eyes crinkling.

I had to tell him about Jehanne and my dream.

Later, I thought; later.

Amrita tugged at my arm. “Come, come, Moirin! You’re meant to be in the garden before the bridegroom.”

“Yes, my lady,” I said obediently, following her.

It was spring in the charmed valley of Bhaktipur and the garden was in full bloom, filled with towering rhododendrons sporting a wealth of enormous purple blossoms, snaking lianna vines, delicate frangipani perfuming the air with fragrance, and marigolds I had coaxed to bloom early. Beneath the trees, an immense, elaborate canopy of colorful sequined fabric had been erected, sparkling in the sunlight, held up by gilded poles. There was a brazier of sacred fire, tended to by a lean priest whose kind smile belied his ascetic figure.

All the women and children of the harem were there, faces glowing on this happy day; and then the groom’s party entered the garden on foot, laughing and singing, and my heart grew even fuller.

With much fanfare, Bao and I were seated opposite one another beneath the canopy, smiling at one another.

The priest beamed at all of us. “Today among friends and loved ones, in the presence of the sacred fire, upon the life-giving earth and beneath the radiant sun, we come together to seek the blessing of the gods on the marriage of Moirin and Bao,” he announced.

My lady Amrita came forward and handed me a garland of flowers. Bao inclined his head, and I laid it around his neck, laughing a little as it caught and snagged on his unfamiliar turban and pulled it askew. He grinned and settled it in place. And then Ravindra, his narrow face solemn, extended a garland to Bao, who leaned forward and placed it carefully over my shoulders.

The priest intoned a sing-song series of prayers and I listened, or at least I half-listened, with my heart so very full.

If it had been a traditional Bhodistani wedding, our parents would have spoken next. I felt a pang at the absence of my beloved mother and the gracious father I had found in the City of Elua-and, too, at the absence of Bao’s gentle seamstress mother and her lively daughter. I even wished the bitter non-father who had cast him out, and Tatar general who had fathered him and claimed him with pride, could be here and find gladness in this day.

But we were among loved ones; and it was enough.

“Now you shall exchange vows of devotion,” the priest declared. “Moirin, it falls to you to speak first.”

There were traditional words for this, too, but not vows that would make sense for such an unlikely couple as us.

I took a deep breath, gazing at Bao. “So much of what happened to thrust us together, neither of us chose. You wanted to find a way to be sure of me, my magpie? Well, today is it. We did not have to do this, you and I. You did not have to ask me to wed you, and I did not have to accept your offer.” I swallowed hard, my eyes stinging. “I am here beneath this canopy, saying these words because I love you and I choose to be with you for the rest of my life. Today, I am choosing this and giving my heart to you.”