It was a few hours ahead of sunset and the sky was red, the air hot. Fall had well and truly arrived, or so she’d thought until now. Maram reclined on a large rock, her legs crossed, her jacket spread beneath her. Below her was Aghraas, similarly stripped out of her jacket, and leaning over a wide stream. She watched as she splashed water on her arms and throat, then over her face, before taking a large gulp. Her copper skin gleamed with droplets of water and there was something serene about her as she turned her face heavenward and closed her eyes as she absorbed sunlight.

Maram watched her without guile or shame. She’d never seen anyone like her—none among the Vath or Andalaans possessed the surety of movement that she did. Where she chose to go was where she would be, no matter what. She turned her face away from the sky and to Maram and grinned, though Maram didn’t know why. She felt an answering grin on her face and a strange warmth in her chest, unweighted by the deep distrust that naturally governed her relationships. She watched her as she climbed the rock easily and collapsed beside her. Wordlessly, she held out a sheepskin to her.

“Drink, Your Highness,” she said when Maram stared at it uncomprehending. “It’s only water—the freshest on your estate.”

Maram took the sheepskin hesitantly and put the opening to her lips. It seemed suddenly important to her that she be able to accomplish this very easy thing to Aghraas’s satisfaction. But in the end, she choked on the water and it spilled out of the sheepskin and down her front. Aghraas didn’t laugh, only held out her hand to have it back so that she too might drink. When she held it out Aghraas made a sound of curiosity and instead of taking the sheepskin of water, took hold of Maram’s wrist.

Maram flinched and dropped the bag between them—Aghraas seemed not to notice, her eyes fixed on the palm of her hand. A flush of shame worked its way up Maram’s throat. It was the childish sort of shame she thought she’d left behind when she’d returned to the Ziyaana, churning inside her and upsetting all the old voices that taunted her as a child. Aghraas’s thumb traced slowly over the lines of henna stained into the palm of her hand where few people would see or even think to look. The lines meant nothing—they were only meant to be evocative of Kushaila design. And yet by being on her palm at all they meant everything; they were testament to her weakness, her inability to turn away from her Kushaila heritage.