Possessed by the notion, I drop to one knee in front of the giant

blooms. “I will take good care of her,” I swear, imagining that the dead

queens can hear my promise. “And when she’s gone, I will visit her here

every day for the rest of my life.”

I smile. Father’s right; I do sound like a king.

Drunk on promises, I rise shakily to my feet, dizzied by how close I am

to being the most powerful man in Yuan. By the time I reach the door to

Isra’s tower, I’m certain tonight is the night. I’ll assure her that death is

nowhere in her near future and then make my offer for her hand. Father

said he wanted to discuss the betrothal without the potential husband

present—as is the custom when negotiating a royal marriage—but I want

Isra to remember the moment we decided to marry as something between

the two of us.

So I wait until her maid leaves the tower to collect the dinner tray

she has fetched for the queen since Isra requested her privacy. Then I

dismiss the guards at the door, retrieve the key from its hiding place behind

the loose stone, and let myself in.

“Isra?” I climb the stairs swiftly, not bothering to keep my steps soft. I

don’t want to surprise her. I’m sure she’s been worried. A shock is the last

thing she needs. “Isra, it’s Bo!” I call again, louder than before, but still no

answer comes from the rooms above.

She must be out on the balcony. She seems to favor it there, though

she can’t see the impressive view of the city spread out before her … yet.

But by next week, or the following, for certain …

Returning her sight. Just another thing my queen will love me for.

With a smile, I push through the door to her apartments, pass her

empty sitting room, leaving the door to her private chamber closed—I

doubt she’s asleep at this hour—and make my way to her music room.

From the door, I can see that the balcony on the far side of the room is

empty.

The bedroom it is, then, I think, secretly pleased to have an excuse to

be alone with Isra in a room with a bed. I turn back down the hall and knock

softly on her door. “Isra? Are you awake?”

Silence, but for the soft tick of a clock in the music room.

“Isra? It’s Bo. I have wonderful news.”

More silence, silence so complete that it’s hard to believe she’s

breathing in the room beyond. But she has to be in there. She isn’t in any of

the other rooms, and she hasn’t left the tower since I walked her here two

days ago. The guards outside would have alerted me immediately. I gave

strict orders.

“Isra? Are you well?” I ask, growing concerned. “Isra?”

More silence. My stomach shrivels. What if she’s ill? What if she’s

suffering in the absence of the poison the way the wine lovers suffer when

our stores run dry? What if I’ve put her health in danger?

“Isra!” I pound on the door with my fist. “Answer me, or I’m coming

in!” I wait a long moment, giving her one last chance to call out, before I

turn the handle.

The heavy wood hits the wall behind with a thud that echoes in the

empty room. In the center, Isra’s bed is neatly made, the quilt tucked

tightly at the edges. In the corner, the maid’s narrow cot is also made, but

the mattress shows signs that it held a body not too long ago—dips and

depressions, a sagging place on one side where she sat as she put on her

shoes. Isra’s mattress, however …

I cross the room to stare down at it. Perfectly smooth. Not a dent or

a shadow. Either Needle shakes the mattress out and reshapes it every

morning, or Isra hasn’t slept here recently.

And if she didn’t sleep in her bed last night … where did she sleep?

And with whom?

“That lying … little …,” I murmur through clenched teeth.

My hands ball into fists, and it’s all I can do to keep from punching

the wall near her headboard. Isra’s been using me to cover her

indiscretions. She could be with another man right now, conceiving a

bastard to bear after we marry.

I will not raise another man’s bastard. I will not.

She’d better pray there’s another explanation, I think as I slam the

door to her bedroom behind me. If Isra loses my affection, she will have

very few friends in this city.

And a queen without friends will find herself a dead queen sooner

than later.

FOURTEEN

GEM

I woke before the sun, driven by the need to put an end to our

adventure as soon as possible. After adding fuel to the fire and waking Isra

long enough to assure her that I’d be back before the flames went out, I

hurried up the mountain to fetch the bulbs we’d come for. I couldn’t risk

telling her the truth about the garden.

No matter what happened between us last night, I still need an

excuse to leave my cell. Come spring, I must steal the royal roses and return

to my people.

Still, I didn’t like leaving her alone, even for a short time. I walked as

quickly as my sore legs would carry me and was back by her side by the

time the first pink light kissed the desert.

This time, she was where I had left her, curled in a ball on the

ground, her sweater-covered hands pressed against her lips. I watched her

sleep as I tied the gnarled roots of the bulbs together with strips of dried

grass, dreading the moment she’d open her eyes.

The only thing worse than hating Isra is … whatever this is.

Wanting her, wanting her to realize what a fool she is. Wanting all

this to be over.

I want to go home. I want to be back with people I know, in a world I

understand. I’m sick to death of this upside-down place, where I crave the

touch of a girl who holds me prisoner, and every other word I speak is a lie.

Half the time I can’t even tell who I’m lying to. Her or myself.

I spend the day angry. At myself. At Isra. At the bulbs she insisted on

fondling and sniffing before we headed down the mountain, at the rocks on

the trail, at the sun and the wind and the dirt in my Smooth Skin shoes and

the needles on every cactus where we stop to drink.

I am in a foul mood, made fouler by trying to hide it from Isra. The

walk back to the dome has been torture. A part of me is eager to be back in

my cell. At least there Isra can’t cling to my arm, or brush her body against

mine, or sigh through her parted lips, or tilt her face up with that look in

her eyes. The one that makes me want to strangle her. And kiss her. And

strangle her some more. And maybe leap off a cliff after the strangling is

done, just to put myself out of my misery.

“It won’t be long now,” Isra says, shielding her face from the setting

sun with one narrow hand. “I can smell it.”

“Smell what?”

“The dome. I never realized it had a smell,” she says, wrinkling her

nose. “Like metal when it’s cold. And sour nutshells. Mixed together.”

I grunt in response.

“What do you think it smells like?” she asks.

“We’ll be close enough for the guards to catch sight of us soon,” I

say, ignoring her question. I’m not in the mood to play her blind-girl games.

Not everything has a smell, and if the dome had a smell, it would smell like

death. Slow, creeping, unmerciful death. “We should stop here. Wait for it

to get dark. There’s a mound of rocks just ahead. It should conceal us from

anyone using a spyglass.”

I don’t tell her that my people gathered those rocks, that we piled