Sparrow’s possession of the pregnancy-preventing root was awkwardly acknowledged by them both when she signaled its presence. She can barely believe she summoned the courage to purchase it, feeling, the whole time, like she was engaged in a sordid activity that would bring not just the authorities but the vengeance of the Ge’o deities down on her head. She hesitated in the shadows at first, watching young Noi women chat and joke with the elderly apothecary as they purchased their own Sanjire root without a whit of shame, some exchanging ribald Xishlon sayings and tales. Completely open about all of it.

It was a stunning revelation, a raw resentment pricking at Sparrow as the subversive thought rose—why shouldn’t all women have this freedom and power? Western and Eastern alike?

“Perhaps let’s start with some forbidden wine,” Thierren gently suggests, coaxing her from her thoughts, the sudden softness to his deep voice belying some understanding of her tumultuous culture shock. His mouth tics up. “And after that, I’ll kiss the forbidden purple glitter off your beautiful lips.”

Sparrow’s eyes widen. Thierren grins warmly at her even as he flushes, seeming pleased by his own brazen statement. Her heart swells with affection as she realizes they’re both doing the same thing—harnessing the moon’s Xishlon light to experiment with being bold. To experiment with showing and telling each other the truth of their desires, both of them in a state of active rebellion against the West.

Because, Sparrow realizes, she has the right to ribald jokes and Sanjire root and welcoming this man she loves into both her heart and her body if she so chooses. Just like Thierren has the right to not just desire someone, but to love them deeply. Anyone he chooses.

The West be fully damned.

“Well, then, pour me some wine, Thierren Stone.” Her bravado has her own blush flaring hotter. “And then I’ll cover every inch of you in forbidden purple glitter.”

Completely lovestruck, Thierren pours wine into the long-stemmed glasses Mii Vun left for them on the balcony’s small table, their violet crystal decorated with lavender moons.

“Oh, Thierren,” Sparrow enthuses, seeming entranced by the glowing beauty of the rose-flavored spirits. “It’s like you’re pouring pure moonlight.”

Thierren smiles, charmed by her observation as he hands her a glass of the iridescent purple liquid. Sparrow’s fingers brush against his, and it sends a tingle straight through him as their eyes meet, that ever-present desire firing between them.

Sparrow pulls in a wavering breath, then settles back against the banister, sipping the wine, and he follows her bashful gaze out over Voloi. A myriad of jewel-bright purple rune orbs drip from every eave and from the branches of the pear trees that line the street and surround their balcony.