When I’m clean, Pressia tends to my hair and makeup. While I’m still not used to having these tasks performed, I have so much on my mind that I allow myself to settle into it. My thoughts churn as she tugs and brushes and dusts me from head to toe. Then she helps me into the dress, which resembles a slightly more modest version of the one she’s wearing, though it still leaves my stomach, my shoulders, and a decent amount of cleavage exposed.

My first thought is to wonder what Nadir might think of this outfit before my throat chokes with a torrent of repressed emotions.

Pressia notices. “What’s wrong, my lady? Is the dress not to your liking?”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. Sorry. This is about something else.”

I try again to call him with my mind, closing my eyes and hoping, hoping, something will happen.

Nadir. Can you hear me?

No answer.

Because he’s dead.

I killed him, and if I don’t get moving, I’ll never see him again. Even if I find the ark, my far-fetched odds are stacked against me like oily, unscalable bricks.

Pressia’s answer is a skeptical look, and I’m tempted to explain that I have much bigger issues to contend with than worrying about my stupid dress, but that wouldn’t be fair.

Another knock at the door summons our attention, and Pressia walks over to open it.

Cyan enters the room, still shirtless and wearing pants made of a soft, dark blue suede that melds to his strong thighs. A low-slung belt wraps around his hips, glittering with an array of colorful jewels. His long hair hangs down, and his feet are bare. Everyone’s feet are bare, including mine. I’d think this is a ruse to keep me vulnerable, but I have a feeling it has more to do with the environment. What need is there for shoes when your world is the beach and the ocean?

“I’ve come to escort you to lunch,” Cyan says, his eyes roaming over me. Something about the expression on his face sends an itchy warning up the back of my neck.

“Why?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, and he places a hand on his chest, giving me a hurt look that lacks the flavor of authenticity.

“You are my special guest, Lor. It’s the least I can do.”

I narrow my eyes further, positive he’s full of it, but what else can I do but go along with this?

“Please say you’ll join us,” he says with a smile that feels as genuine as leather made from papier-mâché.

“Fine,” I say, and he nods.

“Perfect. They’re waiting.”

“Who’s waiting?”

“You’ll see.”

I don’t care for that answer, and I make my displeasure known with another narrowing of my eyes, but it fails to make an impression. “Come along.”