They sat on wood-and-hide stools, and another Qazāli at the fire held out two bowls of beans and a hunk of bread. Gil sniffed his bowl, then attacked it like a soldier. How did he know it was safe?
Instead of accepting the other bowl, Luca reached into her satchel and pulled out a waxed leather tube. Their months of hard work, distilled into a few sheets of paper. The rebels’ copy of the accord.
“Thank you, but—”
Djasha took the bowl from the other Qazāli and put it in Luca’s hands, deftly taking the sealed tube and tucking it away. “Eat, Your Highness. We’ll have time for this later. And don’t worry about poison,” she added wryly. “You’re too big a prize. Your death would help us a little but hurt us a lot. Besides, you’re a guest.”
Gil nodded subtly in encouragement, his cheeks full.
Before Luca realized it, her bowl was empty and Touraine was swaggering back, beaming and breathing hard, a cup in her hand. She gulped down the contents, shuddered, and had it refilled.
“What is this stuff?” Touraine asked Djasha.
“That, girl, is Shāl’s holy water. It will make you the most honest woman alive. So tell me—where did you put my wife?”
Touraine pointed behind her. Aranen waved from a group of older Qazāli, and Djasha went out to meet her. Despite her smiles, the woman did move as if everything hurt.
Touraine turned to Luca, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be drinking.”
“Do as you like. I have my guards tonight.”
“Would you like some?” Touraine held the cup out to Luca.
Luca shook her head. She didn’t need that kind of honesty right now. She stuck her hands in her pockets to remove temptation.
“What about the dance?” Touraine smiled slyly when Luca hesitated. “The drink might help.” Her lingering anger seemed dulled.
Luca was never one for drinking much more than mulled wine. Spirits resulted in a freedom she was unwilling to give herself. Inhibitions were there for a reason.
Then, still holding the cup, Touraine giggled. This broad-shouldered, muscle-bound ex-soldier, who spent most of her time either glowering or bowing at people, had smirked at her future queen, and now she was actually giggling.
Sky above, Luca wanted to do right by that laugh. She wanted Touraine to giggle at her, to smirk and smile and tease her. She hated to want it. She could have fought it, pushed back, snapped Touraine away. Swatted down the cup. That wouldn’t get her anything she wanted.
Luca took the cup.
Only the Shālans’ god knew what was in that fucking cup, but it burned Luca’s nose as she inhaled, then coughed.
Touraine laughed again, mouth wide and open. None of the conscripts looked like that in the compound. Did the freedom come from the liquor or from being with other Qazāli?
Luca closed her eyes and bowed her head over her drink. For a second, she forgot about the magic and the rebellion.
She had been an idiot all this time. Touraine blamed her for everything—not just Guérin, but the Sands who had died protecting Balladairan interests, too. Luca’s interests. Luca was as culpable as Cantic, as Rogan. Touraine couldn’t possibly forgive her, and so Luca could never have more of Touraine than the occasional late-night tea or afternoon échecs game. This drunken giggle, this smile, might be the closest Luca ever got.
She opened her eyes again. Gil’s eyes bulged as he shook his head minutely, which she knew translated to Please don’t do this, not even over my steaming corpse, but she ignored him and tossed the drink down her throat.
Shālan exclamations erupted around her, and laughter as the stinging bitterness made her cheeks suck in. She sputtered like a drowned woman until only a sour aftertaste and a warm sweetness in her belly remained.
Touraine held on to her by the shoulder, a gentle vise. Luca leaned into the safety of the touch.
She smiled up at Touraine. “Let’s dance, then.”
Touraine took her hand and led her out to the dancing.
Touraine and Aranen both threw an arm under Luca’s shoulders, and other dancers linked around them until they became a circle. The drums beat, tak-tak-tak, but in a rhythm that allowed her to shuffle sideways with the others. Her awkward hops fell in time with each beat. She didn’t feel as stilted as she did on a ballroom floor. The drummers slowed for her, and a whole melody sprang up around this new beat. And if she started to stumble, Touraine and Aranen took her weight on their shoulders and carried her through the steps. She focused on keeping the weight on her quickly tiring good leg. Finally, the drummers reached their crescendo, and even Luca gave a short yip at the end.