His words were an obvious attempt to distract her, and Mehr accepted the opportunity gratefully. She told him about her old quarters, about the perforated screen facing the desert, about the way she had danced and danced, hours spent in joyful loneliness under the checkered light that poured through it. She told him that her mother had taught her, that another Amrithi had taught her when her mother had left. She told him how the love of the rites had sustained her like air. She told him more than she’d intended to. But she was lonely, lonely and scared, and Amun was kind.

“I’ve never been able to dance like you,” she admitted. “Your knowledge far surpasses mine.”

When he performed the rites his movements weren’t beautiful. His dancing had none of the poetry of Lalita’s, or the wild, raw abandon her mother had possessed when she’d performed a rite. Amun was economical, powerful—there was a precision in his performances Mehr had never seen before. In his dances, Mehr recognized the flaws in her own.

“I’ve had a great deal of practice,” he said. “Every waking hour not spent in prayers, I have spent on the rites. For most of my service, it has been the one duty the Maha has tasked me to focus on.” A shrug. “Anyone would grow in skill under that regime.”

“What does make you happy, then?” Mehr asked. “Surely something must.”

She was afraid for a second that he would tell her nothing made him happy. But instead he ran a hand through his damp hair, setting the curls into absolute disarray. She recognized that gesture now, from all the times he’d caught her dressing in their shared tent, or trying to untangle her long hair with her fingers. He was embarrassed.

“Come now,” Mehr cajoled. “Everyone has something that they enjoy. Perhaps you’re a secret painter, hm?”

Amun was clearly amused despite himself. “What would I paint here, Mehr? Sand or more sand?”

“You see more women than most painters would ever dream of,” Mehr said with a laugh. “You know my stepmother had her miniature painted for my father once? She commissioned one of the finest artists in Jah Irinah. He couldn’t see her face, of course—my stepmother is too well bred to reveal her face to a stranger—so the poor man worked entirely from her description of herself.”

“Was it accurate?” Amun asked, in a tone that told her he already knew the answer.

“Of course it wasn’t. So my father was blessed with a miniature of a stranger’s face to carry around with him. A stranger who was a good deal more sensuous than my stepmother has ever been, I might add.” Mehr clucked her tongue. “What an imagination that man had.”