Like so many of the other mystics Mehr had seen in the Lotus Hall, his face was swathed by cloth. Only his eyes and the bridge of his nose were revealed, but his head was lowered, hiding his gaze. The little of his skin she could see was dark. She couldn’t tell if he was young or old, ugly or handsome. He was simply male, broad-shouldered and intimidating with footsteps that were soft, too soft. He had a predator’s tread.

She watched him walk over to the floor cushions directly across from her. He kneeled down without making a sound. Seated he towered over her, big scarred hands pressed to his knees, his wide shoulders hunched. She found herself wishing for a partition screen between. Even with her veil in place she felt vulnerable and small.

The female mystic seated herself in a corner of the room in the position of a chaperone, just like Mehr’s father. The sight of her made laughter bubble in Mehr’s throat. She held it back. Mehr’s suitor patently required no chaperone. He was no young noble or merchant’s son. He needed no protection, no guidance in the rules of courtship. He was a beast and interloper and apparently he would have her, rules be damned.

But it seemed both the mystics and her father were determined to adhere to convention. The woman cleared her throat.

“I, Kalini, servant of the Maha and the Emperor, have brought the Maha’s favored, Amun, as suitor for Lady Mehr.” She spoke the words in a deep, sonorous voice. If there was one thing the mystic knew how to do, it was to give a ritual its deserved weight. “Does the lady consent to this meeting?”

If Mehr refused now, the mystics would be obliged to leave. If they refused to do so, her father would have every right to defend her honor. He would love the excuse to vent his rage, she was sure of that. The choice was in her hands.

Mehr possessed so very many choices. The choice to run, the choice to stay. The choice to say yes or no, the choice to place Arwa’s neck under the sword alongside hers, or face her fate alone. Layers upon layers of choice, and every single one felt like another cloth pressed over her mouth, slowly suffocating her.

“Daughter,” prompted her father.

“I consent,” Mehr said. Of course she did.

“The suitor may speak,” said her father.

The silence stretched, filling the room from end to end. Time moved in slow, unbearable increments. And then finally Amun spoke.

“Lady Mehr,” he said. “I am honored to meet you at last.”

He didn’t sound honored. His voice was like glass: colorless, smooth, entirely lacking in warmth. She wanted to recoil from it.