The girl gives me a lopsided smile. “The famous Nine. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
I flinch at her use of Blue’s nickname for me but force a bow. “I’m honored to learn from you today, Mistress Zelle.”
“Please,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “Just Zelle. Mistress makes me feel so old.” With a swish of her robes, she comes forward to kneel on the bamboo-mat floor, gesturing for me to join her. “Don’t you ever got bored of it? All the Mistress this, Madam that. At least in my job I’m not expected to make small talk. Unless, of course, it’s a customer’s preference.” She winks.
I don’t know how to respond to that. Instead I look round her room. It’s so different from my own in Paper House. Paintings and calligraphy scrolls hang on the walls, and the cabinets and side tables are richly detailed, carved from polished teak and mahogany and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. To one side of the room hangs a swath of gauzy fabric, rippling in the breeze coming through the window. The fabric is sheer enough to make out a bed behind it, low and wide, mounds of pillows thrown across its top.
“You’re from Xienzo, yes?” Zelle says, following my gaze. “I guess you haven’t seen one before.”
“A bed?” I shake my head. “We used sleeping mats back home. And in our rooms here.”
She snorts. “Of course you do. They wouldn’t want to encourage you bringing lovers back. Though that doesn’t stop all the girls.”
A crooked grin darts across her lips, and I find myself returning it. There’s something friendly about this girl, with her sparkling eyes and teasing voice.
“So,” she murmurs, gazing at me. “What to teach you…”
“Mistress Azami said the basics?”
Zelle flaps a hand. “Basics are boring. I could tell you how it works, where certain parts need to go, the anatomy and mechanics of it all. But what’s the point? You’ll know all that anyway once it happens. The best sex is natural. Instinctive. It’s about letting go, not running through a list of actions in your mind. That’s why I hate all these formalities and etiquette. They spoil it—the rawness. The passion.” She pauses. “Think of it as a simple case of action and reaction. Touch and response.”
With an impish smile, she leans forward to grasp my hand. As she does so, her collar shifts, exposing the shadow of her cleavage. Zelle doesn’t seem to notice. Pushing back my sleeve, she holds a fingertip to my inner elbow and, her thick-lashed eyes never leaving mine, she traces her finger down my arm.
Slowly. Lightly. Teasingly.
Heat stirs between my legs.
“How does this make you feel?” she asks in a glossy voice, watching me.
I swallow. “I—I guess it’s nice.”
Zelle laughs, though not unkindly. “There’s no lying when it comes to sex, Nine. Your body will always betray you.” Touching my cheek, she murmurs, “Look how deeply you’re blushing.” Her fingers brush my lips. “Your mouth is parted, expectant. Ready to be kissed.” Her palm rests against my breastbone, her skin hot on mine. “Your heartbeat is fast. Excited. What would I find if I slipped my hand between your legs? Would your body betray you there, too?”
I drop my gaze, and Zelle shifts back.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she says, gentler now. “You can be honest with me. Many of us yearn to be touched. To be loved.”
“Well,” I say, glowering, “I don’t yearn for the Demon King.”
It comes out louder and harsher than I meant it to.
“I—I mean,” I go on, “he’s a demon. And I’m not.”
Zelle rubs a lock of her hair between her thumb and finger. “A lot of the girls have trouble understanding that,” she says with a nod. “The attraction between castes. But it isn’t actually as rare as you might expect.”
“It isn’t?”
“Think of it this way. Moon castes came from Paper, according to the old myths of the Mae Scripts, am I right? And Steels are what resulted from the mix of Paper and Moon. So really, Paper, Steel, and Moon aren’t that separate fundamentally. We’re just at various levels on the scales. So we look a little different.” She shrugs. “Fur, feathers—it’s just decoration, really. Our basic makeup and structure are the same.”
Her words remind me of what Mama told me about humans and demons sharing the same blood. And being reminded of my mother leads me to think of that day seven years ago, the day I stopped believing in her words because how could we be the same when demons could do that?
“But if they think they are so superior to us,” I scowl, “why would they even want us in that way?”
Zelle cocks a shoulder. “Part of it is the temptation of the forbidden, I suppose. The excitement of breaking the rules. Especially somewhere like here, the palace, a place full of Moon and Steel castes—maybe the delicate features of human girls have an exotic lure.” Something hardens in her expression. “But mostly, I think, it’s about power. Demon men can take what they want. Our homes. Our lives. Our bodies.” Then, as abruptly as it went, her lighthearted demeanor returns. “And of course, there’s our sheer beauty. I mean, who can resist this?” She flips her hair, shoots me a wink. “Anyway, the real issue is how do we help you feel at ease with the King.”
I shift uncomfortably, remembering last night—the closeness of the King, his thumb tracing my lips, the way he touched me with the intimacy, the sureness of someone who has already known others’ bodies.
Or, perhaps, of someone who is comfortable with taking things as his own.
Revulsion swirls through me, edged with something fire-hot. I want to jump up, scream at Zelle. Isn’t it obvious? Isn’t it understandable how maybe I wouldn’t want a stranger’s body pressed against mine, especially not a demon whose power has brought so much pain to Ikhara, to families like mine?
Dzarja. It is a betrayal.
Every day I’m here in the palace is a betrayal.
But I swallow my words, unsure of how Zelle would respond. Instead, I make up, “I know nothing about him. We’ve had one conversation. Barely. How am I supposed to be attracted to someone I don’t know?”
“You’re really telling me you’ve never been drawn to someone because of the way they look?” Zelle asks with an arch of her brow. “It’s not shallow, Nine. Attraction is an honest, instinctive part of life. And a person’s appearance is much more than just their features. It’s how they hold themselves. The way they move. The things you can tell about them without words. You’re how old?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen,” she repeats, something a little wistful in her voice, even though it couldn’t have been more than a few years ago for her. “Such a good age. Still fresh enough that attraction and desire feel new to you, but old enough to understand what to do with them. You must have watched someone by now and wished you could know them. Wondered whether their thoughts might stray to you.”
And all at once my face gets hot—because it’s a perfect description of the way I’ve been feeling about someone.