Falling into the Rite of Sunrise felt like coming home. Dancing alone, cool floor beneath her and the heat of the sun on her face—this was her place of solace and safety. She didn’t need music to accompany her. She didn’t need the sound of other footsteps striking the ground along with hers, creating a music of their own. She found the rhythm of the rite in the beat of her heart, the thrum of her blood, the in and out of her breath from her lungs.

She heard it when Amun returned. His footsteps echoed up the stairs. She considered stopping, then decided against it. He’d already seen her dance. What did she have to hide?

He entered the room as she moved her body through a flourishing arc, her arms tracing the path of the sun through the sky, her fingers shaping sigils that transformed, one to the other, with each punch of her heels to the ground. He said nothing. He was silent even after she moved into the last stance.

“Good morning,” Mehr said, a little breathless. She saw that his hair was damp, his clothes fresh, robe gone. He must have gone to bathe. He was already sitting comfortably on the edge of the bed, his elbows pressed to his knees.

“You look happy,” he observed.

“I am.” The rite had left her peaceful. She no longer felt like vanishing into darkness. She could look at Amun without wanting to flinch away from his guilt-stricken eyes. She didn’t know how long her renewed strength would last, but for now she held the warmth of it close like a blanket. “The rites comfort me. They always have.”

“How strange,” he murmured.

She stretched her arms, her neck, working the kinks out of her muscles. “At home, I danced rites every day.” Memories rose up in her mind’s eye. Lalita leading her through steps, patient and smiling. Arwa peering into Mehr’s room, watching for a few brief moments before one of her nursemaids found her and snatched her back up. Bittersweet memories. “I’ve missed them.”

She thought of telling him about Lalita. About how Lalita was a mentor, an almost-mother to her. About how she’d lost her. But Amun had a faraway look on his face, a shadowed look, and Mehr found she wanted to peel back his layers instead. “Why do you find it strange?” she asked.

He gave a shrug, his broad shoulders rising and falling. “I only perform the rites because I’m bid to,” he said. “They have never made me happy. They are just a duty I have to fulfill.”

“I find that strange,” Mehr said. “I’ve always found dancing to be a comfort.” She drew closer, forcing him to look up at her. “So you’ve never performed the rites simply for the joy of it?”