“The rites don’t have that kind of power,” Mehr said. But even as she said it, she wasn’t so sure. All her life she’d believed the rites were a matter of prayer, of ritual and faith. But on the night of the storm, she’d reached out a hand and the dreamfire had reached back.

When she’d danced the Rite of Dreaming that night, had she manipulated the dreamfire—the magic of the Gods—the way Amun had manipulated the daiva? Not by intent, certainly. “We don’t have the ability to control the daiva. Do we?”

Amun shrugged. “You saw what I did,” he repeated.

“But how?”

“I learned,” he said shortly. He had no desire to tell her more, that was clear enough.

“What you did—however you did it—was wrong. The daiva deserve our respect.”

“Is that what your father’s people believe, my lady? That daiva deserve our respect?”

Oh, Mehr had already grown to dislike that opaque voice of his. His face was unreadable. She couldn’t tell if he was furious or calm.

“Call me by my name,” she snapped. “I’ve told you before, I’m not a noblewoman any longer. Surely you know that. It’s your fault, after all.”

“Then don’t call me husband,” he replied, just as fast. She realized, then, that he was angry. Good. “Call me Amun, and I will call you Mehr. Consider it a trade.”

“It’s what you are,” Mehr said sharply.

“I’m not …” He stopped. Swallowed. “I don’t want to think of myself as that.”

She thought of the weight of that word, husband, and the duties bound up with it. Mehr resisted the urge to touch the seal at her throat.

“Fine,” she said. “As you wish. I will call you Amun.”

She wrapped her arm around her knees, drawing her legs up to ward off the chill. She could feel Amun’s eyes on her, still watching her. There was a beat of silence.

“You’re cold,” he murmured. He reached for her wrist. Mehr felt the brush of his fingers on her skin and thought of the daiva, of its fingers shattering around her, and flinched away from him.

Amun’s face changed before her eyes, hard blankness breaking for a moment to reveal the feelings beneath. His expression was awful—a deep, painful angry thing, his features twisted with loathing.

Mehr had wanted to see some emotion in his face. She saw it then, in the flickering light.

His face became shuttered. He turned away from her. Blew out the lamp.

Mehr clutched her own wrist. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”