Rojer blinked. “That’s beautiful. Someone should write a song about that.” Already he was thinking of melodies for it.

“Your pardon, intended,” Amanvah said, “but there are many. Shall we sing one while we bathe you?”

Rojer had a sudden vision of being strangled in the bath by the two of them, nude and singing. He laughed nervously. “My master told me to beware things too good to be true.”

Amanvah tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”

Rojer swallowed hard. “Perhaps I should bathe myself.”

The girls giggled behind their veils. “You have already seen us unclad, intended,” Sikvah said. “Do you fear what we may see?”

Rojer blushed. “It’s not that, I…”

“Do not trust us,” Amanvah said.

“Is there a reason I should?” Rojer snapped. “You pretend to be innocent girls who don’t speak a word of Thesan, then you try and kill Leesha, and turn out to have understood every word we’ve said. How do I know there isn’t blackleaf in that tub?”

Both of them put their heads to the floor again. “If that is your feeling, then kill us, intended,” Amanvah said.

“What?” Rojer said. “I’m not killing anybody.”

“It is your right,” Amanvah said, “and no more than we deserve for our betrayal. It is the same fate we will face if you refuse us.”

“They’ll kill you?” Rojer asked. “The Deliverer’s own blood?”

“Either the Damajah will kill us for failing to poison Mistress Leesha, or the Shar’Dama Ka will kill us for attempting it. If we are not safe in your chambers, we are not safe.”

“You are safe here, but that doesn’t mean you need to bathe me,” Rojer said.

“My cousin and I never meant you dishonor, son of Jessum,” Amanvah said. “If you do not want us as wives, we will go to our father and confess.”

“I…don’t know if I can accept that,” Rojer said.

“You need not accept anything this night,” Sikvah said, “save a song of Waning and a bath.” As one, the Krasian girls lowered their veils and began to sing, their voices no less beautiful than he remembered. He didn’t understand the words, but the haunting tone spoke well of strength in darkest night. They rose to their feet and came to him, gently guiding him to the tub and pulling at his clothes. Soon he was naked and sitting in the steaming water, feeling the delicious heat leach the pain from his muscles. They wove a veil of music around him as mesmerizing as any he had cast over a demon.

Sikvah shrugged, and her black silk robes fell to the floor. Rojer gaped as she turned to unfasten Amanvah’s robes as well.

“What are you doing?” he asked as Sikvah stepped into the tub in front of him. Amanvah got in behind.

“Bathing you, of course,” Amanvah said. She went right back into her song, scooping bowlfuls of hot water over his head as Sikvah took a brush and a cake of soap.

She was firm and efficient, scrubbing the dirt and blood from him while massaging his sore muscles, but Rojer barely noticed, eyes closed, drunk on their voices and the feeling of their skin, until Sikvah’s hands dipped below the water. He jumped.

“Shhhh,” Amanvah whispered, her soft lips touching his ear. “Sikvah is already known to man, and trained at pillow dancing. Let her be our Waning gift to you.”

Rojer didn’t know exactly what pillow dancing meant, but he could well imagine. Sikvah’s lips met his, and he gasped as she moved onto his lap.

Leesha hadn’t realized Rojer’s bedroom was directly beneath hers until she heard Sikvah’s cries. At first she thought the girl was in pain and sat up, ready to fetch her apron, but then she realized the nature of the sounds.

She tried to go back to sleep, but despite the indiscretion, neither Rojer nor the girl seemed inclined toward quiet. She put a pillow over her ears, but the sounds broke through even that barrier.

She wasn’t surprised, really. In some ways, it was more surprising it had taken so long. Sikvah’s state, after Inevera had been so encouraging of a virginity test, had never sat well with Leesha. It was too easy a play on Rojer’s chivalry, too convenient a way to tempt him into accepting them as brides. Rojer was only a man, after all.

She snorted, knowing it was only half the story. Inevera had played her, as well.

In truth, though she did not approve of a man taking more than one wife, she thought Rojer would have a good influence on the girls, and perhaps the responsibilities of a husband might help mature him, as well. If this was what he wanted…

Even if it is, I don’t have to listen to it, she thought, giving up on her bed and walking down the hall, choosing one of the many empty bedrooms on her floor. She fell gratefully into the covers and expected to drift off immediately, but the sounds had affected her, bringing unbidden images to mind. Jardir, his shirt stripped off, his muscled skin alive with wards. She wondered if they would tingle to the touch as Arlen’s had.

When she finally drifted off, it was to thoughts of passion. In her dreams, she remembered the heat of the fireplace as she and Gared had squirmed together on the floor of her parents’ common room. Marick’s wolfish eyes. The ardent feeling of Arlen’s kisses and embrace.

But Gared and Marick had betrayed her, and Arlen had shunned her. The dream became a nightmare as flashes, more detailed than ever before, came back to her about that afternoon on the road when she was pinned by three men. She heard their jeers and jests again, felt the way they had pulled her hair, relived what they had done atop her. Things she had blocked from her mind, but knew were horrid truth. Through it all, she could see the sneer Inevera had given her at the whipping.

She woke up with her heart pounding in her chest. Her hands shook for something to defend herself with, but of course she was alone.

When she reoriented herself, the fear fled, replaced by harsh anger. They took something from me on that road, but I’ll be corespawned if I let them take everything.

Leesha felt the paint and powder thick on her face as she tried on what felt like the hundredth dress, all the while being careful of her pinned hair, lest it lose its shape.

Jardir was coming to court. He had sent word that morning that he wished to visit in the afternoon to continue to read to her from the Evejah as he had on the road, but no one had any illusions regarding his intent.

Abban’s First Wife, Shamavah, brought dozens of dresses for her to try, Krasian silks smoother than a baby’s skin, brightly colored and scandalously cut. She and Elona dressed Leesha like a doll, parading her before the mirrors lining the walls and arguing over which cuts were most flattering. Wonda looked on in amusement, probably feeling vindicated for the similar treatment she had suffered at the hands of Duchess Araine’s seamstress.

“This one’s too much, even by my standard,” Elona said of the latest choice.

“Too little, you mean,” Leesha said. The dress was practically transparent, like something Inevera would wear. She’d need one of Bruna’s thick knitted shawls to feel half decent in it.

“You don’t want to give it all away,” Elona agreed. “Let him work a bit to earn more than a peek.” She chose a more opaque dress, but the silk still clung to Leesha in a way that made her feel as if she were naked. She shivered, and realized why such fashion was not as popular in the North as the desert.