Whenever Ibi laughed, Atem was in heaven.

Her voice had an almost musical quality to it, like a minstrel holding a decadent vibrato. He had spent the last hour listening to her laugh and talk while entangled in her arms, delightedly following the low notes of her tenor and the breathiness in her whispers. Never had his bed felt so warm, even in the dead of the desert night. He was so content with Ibi lying beside him, he didn't even care that she was currently interrogating him about Satiah.

"Come on," Ibi sighed, leaning up and resting her head on her hand. "You must have some opinion about her… What does she look like?"

Atem smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "She's … appealing, I guess," he said. "Thick hair. Nice skin. Brown eyes."

Ibi gave him a wry look. "How descriptive," she said flatly.

Atem laughed. "Well, what can I say? I didn't even get close enough to throw a stone at her."

"But she must have made you feel something."

Atem's smile fell, and he reached out to hold her upper arm, running his thumb across the smooth skin. "To be honest, I didn't even really think about her until she spoke."

Ibi peered down at him. "And then?"

"And then … she left an impression," Atem admitted.

"How so?"

Atem took a deep breath, Ibi's arm rising and falling with the swell of his chest. "She was incredibly confident," he said. "So sure of herself and everything around her. As if she already knew me better than I knew myself."

Ibi looked different just then, but not altogether jealous as Atem had suspected. Simply curious — attentive. It made him want to keep going, even though a smarter man wouldn't have.

"Her ka was the same," he said. "Surprisingly fierce. I'll never forget the way it stopped the hammerblow from my brother's ka as if it weighed no more than a feather."

"Sounds like you have quite the woman on your hands," Ibi teased, and Atem laughed.

A quiet stillness fell over his bedchamber, and from the open window he could hear the cicadas droning endlessly in the garden below. He took hold of her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the top of it. Gently, Ibi pulled it away, brushing one finger across his cheek and tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

"So," she said, smiling. "Have you thought about what kind of gift you could give such a woman on her wedding day?"

Atem felt his heart drop into his stomach. He'd almost forgotten about the matrimonial gift rite, which mandated an offering to the gods, as well as to his wife.

Ibi laughed at the expression on his face, then sat up. "I'll take that as a no."

Atem also drew himself up against a pillow. "Well… I was just hoping my teacher could help me," he said, giving her an entreating look.

Ibi narrowed her eyes. "Is that so?" she said, leaving the bed and retrieving her gown from the corner poster. Atem was mournful to see her leave, but he delighted in watching her slip back into her clothes. "Well, you're in luck," she went on, moving back toward him. "I have just the idea."

Ibi leaned in for a kiss, and Atem closed his eyes at the feel of her lips brushing his.

"Meet me in the west market tomorrow at noon."

Satiah sighed as she closed the lid on her last trunk of belongings. She turned around and sat on it, casting her eyes around her all-but empty room. The only things that remained were a chair with two dresses folded neatly on it, and her bed, in which she would sleep just one more night before boarding the ship to Thebes — to her future.

This was the only room she'd ever called her own. It had been hers since she was a girl, and she chose to remain in it even when larger rooms in the villa became vacant over the years. It had two large windows, one which afforded a beautiful view of the city and the Nile, and one overlooking the villa courtyard. The room faced east, meaning she always awoke with the first light of sun on a new day. And it was just across the courtyard from her brother's and father's rooms — still close, but far enough away to feel private and personal.

It was her sanctuary. And come tomorrow, she would never see it again.

Satiah had, for many days, been only vaguely inconvenienced by thoughts of her new reality. Yes, she would be moving to a new city, and yes, she would be married soon after. But she hadn't allowed herself to really think about what that meant. She would no longer have her own room — her own space to retreat to when she was feeling overwhelmed. In less than a week, she would be expected to share everything with someone she knew very little about — her belongings, her habits, her thoughts. And her bed.

The thought made her wince. She had almost forgotten the whole point of this arrangement in the first place: to make children. Children who would one day grow up to inherit the legacy that, less than a week ago, had belonged solely to her brother's bloodline. Even more than marriage, the responsibility of motherhood terrified her. When Metka was alive, Satiah had been spoiled by the knowledge that it ultimately wouldn't matter whether or not she had children — but now, it was expected to be her sole purpose in life.

Satiah was pulled from her thoughts when two servants entered her room.

"Sorry to intrude, my lady," said one, obviously noting the look of surprise she gave him. "Is your last trunk ready to be loaded?"

Satiah gave a small smile. "Yes, of course," she said, standing aside. The servants leaned and hoisted the trunk, carrying it out the door and down the stairs.

Satiah moved to her window to watch the servants loading the last of her belongings into a cart for transport, and her thoughts drifted to her father; across the courtyard, she could just barely see shadows moving about in his room as well. As he was no longer acting nomarch of Ineb-Hedj, he would soon be kicked out of the villa and forced to find a new home.

Satiah's father had spent the last week going back and forth about what he would do with his future. He would travel with his daughter to Thebes to be witness to her wedding, but after that, his purpose would be all but spent. Though the High Priest had been quick to take over governing responsibilities in Memphis, the Pharaoh had been kind enough not to let Aknadin touch their family's personal wealth. But what savings they did have would not last Satiah's father more than a few months without steady work, and he wasn't getting any younger — to return to the trades or manual labor at his age would surely drive him to an early death.

Satiah's heart grew heavy thinking about such a fate, so she left her empty room and crossed the courtyard to enter her father's living quarters. Here, too, servants were milling about, but there was no sign of her father. She weaved between the workers and climbed up to the second floor, peering into the bedroom to see him sitting at his table. The room was otherwise empty, but there was a small, lit brazier in front of him, along with a pile of papyri beside it. He had just taken a page and thrown it into the brazier when Satiah announced her presence with a knock on the doorframe.

Metjen looked up, surprised at first, then relieved upon seeing her. "There you are," he said, reaching for a fresh papyrus from a stack next to him. "All packed?"

Satiah nodded, then looked around the room. "I see you are as well."

He made a low noise. "I'm having most of my things brought to the market to sell," he explained, tipping the corner of the papyrus down into the coals until it caught flame. "That should help stretch my finances a bit."

Satiah's brows knit, and she walked forward to get a closer look at what he was doing. "What's all this about?"

Her father glanced up and flashed a smile. "Sensitive correspondence," he replied. "Well, whatever I could get my hands on before that damned High Priest turned everything over. Did you know Priest Kebu was having a shameless affair with a dock worker's wife?"

Satiah's scoffed disbelievingly, and her father handed her the next papyrus on the stack. She scanned it, her mouth dropping at the sordid contents.

"He seemed such a pious man," she teased, tipping the papyrus into the flames.

Metjen laughed wryly. "Yes, and that's not even the most intriguing thing I found in the Conclave's archive," he said, sifting through the stack to pull out a handful of pages. "It seems in his haste, our white-haired friend left behind some of his most … academic works."

Satiah took the papyri, her stomach turning at the sight: there, drawn on the first page in striking accuracy, was the Millennium Ring. Her eyes went wide as she flipped the corner down to the next page, only to be greeted with more sketches of the Items. "Bakura drew these?"

Her father nodded. "I found them amongst his personal items," he said. "And it's a damned good thing I did. If Aknadin had seen these, my head would be on a spike right now."

"But what does this mean?" Satiah asked, continuing to sift through the pages.

"I don't know what to make of it," Metjen replied. "Whenever he and I spoke about the Items, he appeared to have the same distaste for them that I did. And yet, these drawings seem to indicate some kind of strange … obsession with them. It doesn't make any sense."

But it did to Satiah. She had always felt an air of duplicitousness about Bakura, as if he had been plotting something since the day he set foot in the Memphis court. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility that he had simply used her family to get close to the Items, though for what purpose, she couldn't fathom. If he had meant to steal them, summoning the royal family to Memphis and dueling them in broad daylight didn't seem like a particularly clever plan. But the longer she thought about it, the more the theory seemed plausible. The Pharaoh had not come to Memphis to quarrel, after all, and Bakura must have known this.

Satiah blinked and handed the papyri back to her father. "What will you do with this knowledge?"

Metjen took the pages back and stared at them. "What can I do?" he said. "Bakura is long gone by now. To alert the royal court at this point would only make me look complicit in his escape. Or worse — in his treachery."

"But Father," Satiah pleaded, "we don't know the man's intentions. Unlike us, he did not bow to the Pharaoh upon defeat. If he decides to carry on his own uprising, our association with him will only continue to haunt us like a shadow." Satiah could see the thoughts thrashing around in her father's eyes. "And need I remind you, I am soon to become part of the royal family," she went on. "If violence is indeed Bakura's intent, the royals may not be the only victims this time."

Metjen sighed and placed the papyri down on his table. "You're right," he said, folding Bakura's drawings into a small square. "I will speak to the Pharaoh… But not until after your wedding." He placed a tab of wax into a bronze tray and held it over the smoldering coals to melt. "We need not give our king any more reason to mistrust us."

Satiah laughed inwardly at this — of course her father would listen to her advice now, after so much damage had already been done.

Metjen stamped his clay seal into the wax, then pressed it firmly onto the seam of the folded drawings. After fanning the pages to harden the wax, he slipped them into a leather pouch and tied it closed.

Atem's stomach turned with nervous excitement as he wove through the city streets, his identity concealed by a hood thrown over his head and his cloak wrapped around his face. It was strangely surreal to see no eyes turned to him as he walked — no bodies brought to their knees. He had been through the market many times, but always escorted by the kingsguard or hidden in a netted palanquin. To walk the streets as a commoner made him feel strikingly and comfortingly normal.

It took him a while to find his bearings amongst the countless cross-streets and stairwells, but eventually he set himself on the right track toward the western market. The entrance was hard to miss — the archway was decorated with brightly colored linens and dangling artifacts for sale. Atem let his eyes roam over it for a moment before his gaze was drawn to a familiar form off to the side. Ibi was leaning against the wall, fanning herself in the noonday heat.

Atem approached her slowly, but she paid him no mind until he was almost in arm's reach. She jumped, her expression flashing with fear before settling on recognition. It took Atem only a moment to realize it was probably because of his strange attire.

"Gods," she hissed, "you look like a leper."

Atem smiled, though he knew she probably couldn't see it. "Sorry. I didn't want to be recognized."

"Well, you achieved that," she said, covering her heart with her hand. "Come."

She jerked her head toward the market, then led the way into it. Atem followed, taking a deep breath and filling his lungs with rich and exotic scents. All around him, merchants shouted and beckoned to him from their streetside stalls, and in the fuss he almost lost Ibi. Skittering closer, he followed as she dipped down an alley and emerged in a quieter sector, this one with more formal storefronts. Ibi passed by a few shops — a blacksmith hard at work hammering iron, a weaver racking her loom — until they came upon a quaint shop with a collection of tiny gold amulets hanging in the window. Ibi pulled aside the curtain in the doorway and stepped inside.

Atem followed, casting his eyes along the linen-lined walls, which were covered from top to bottom in trinkets — precious gems and jewelry hanging from pegs or strung along twine from the ceiling, shelves overflowing with countless artifacts and effigies.

"Rashef?" Ibi called. A beat of silence passed, then a scrambling commotion could be heard from behind a curtain at the back of the room.

"Coming!"

Atem jumped when the curtain threw itself back, revealing a bizarre-looking elderly man. He wore a shabby black wig, which sat cockeyed upon his small head, and his narrow shoulders were covered by an enormous usekh collar that looked to weigh about as much as he did altogether. He wore no tunic, but his shendyt appeared to have been woven together from four or five different pieces of cloth.

His beady black eyes squinted through the dim store at his patrons. "Ibi?" he said, wrinkling his nose. "That you?"

"Yes, Rashef," she said, sounding impatient. "I told you yesterday I'd be coming with a buyer."

Rashef's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes!" he exclaimed. "Of course, of course — come in, my friend."

Ibi took Atem by the arm and pulled him forward. "Rashef, this is — gods, take that silly thing off." She grabbed Atem's hood, pulling it away. "This is —"

"Gods be praised!" Rashef exclaimed. "Prince Atem!" Rashef struggled into an awkward bow, falling down to one knee, then the other. As he lowered his upper body, Atem was afraid the weight of Rashef's collar would topple him right over.

"Please," Atem said, "there's no need for that."

Rashef straightened up and pushed himself, with some effort, back to his feet. He seemed neither curious nor concerned with the fact that a royal prince was in the company of a servant girl. "Your highness! You grace me with your presence. To what do I owe such an honor?"

Atem looked nervously at Ibi, then back to the shopkeeper. "I'm … looking for a wedding gift."

"Of course you are," Rashef said with a knowing nod. "I heard just yesterday of your betrothal. What a joyous occasion! Well, you've come to the right place, my prince. As you can see, I am a collector of most rare and valuable items." He gestured to the walls of his shop, and Atem simply smiled awkwardly. "What can I help you find?"

"Well, that's just the thing," Atem said, looking desperately to Ibi for help. "I don't really know what I'm looking for yet."

Suddenly, Ibi's cleared her throat from behind him. "What about your jewelry, Rashef?" she proposed.

Rashef's face lit up with a grin. "Why, yes!" He dropped back to the wall and stood on his toes to reach two necklaces slung on pegs overhead. "I have some of the most dazzling gems in all of Egypt. Sapphires and rubies and—" Atem flinched when the shopkeep whirled around and held the necklaces up against his chest. "No, no… That won't do." Rashef threw them both back in two completely different places and turned to rummage on a shelf instead. "This is for a princess, after all…"

Atem glanced over his shoulder to see Ibi barely containing her laughter; Rashef soon came back, holding out an immense gold bangle with the wings of Isis carved into it. "This armlet was said to have been worn by Nefertiti herself!"

Atem accepted it, then turned to Ibi, who raised her eyebrows curiously. Clearing his throat, he looked back at Rashef. "How about something a bit less … heavy?"

Rashef squinted at him a moment, then snapped his fingers and scurried away between his shelves again.

When Atem looked at Ibi again, she seemed thoroughly entertained. She took the bangle and placed it back on a nearby shelf. "He's a bit eccentric," she whispered, "but his stock is the real deal."

Atem huffed. "I thought you said you were going to help me," he hissed back.

"I said I had an idea, not that I'd handpick the gift for you," she quipped, turning her back to him to inspect the contents of a different shelf. Sighing, Atem, too, busied himself looking through Rashef's wares again, but nothing jumped out at him. From what he remembered of Satiah, it didn't seem she favored jewelry or finery. And yet, if Ibi had suggested this place, Atem figured it must contain some common feminine appeal. The thoughts clashed in his brain, confusing him. He reminded himself to be careful about comparing the two women — while he enjoyed spending time with Ibi, it was unlikely she shared many significant traits with his wife-to-be.

Suddenly, the impermanence of his relationship with Ibi came into stark focus. In just a few day's time, he would be forced to sever ties with this charming, vibrant woman, and instead devote himself to someone completely new — someone who was, understandably, doubtful to be as affectionate and warm as Ibi.

"Oh, Atem."

He was drawn from his thoughts at the sound of Ibi's whimsical voice. Turning, he came to stand over her shoulder, looking down at what she had found. An intricate box sat wedged in the corner of a shelf, and Ibi removed its top to reveal the contents: shiny red silks cradled a beautiful chain headdress, its intricate links fanned out into a halo around the perimeter of the box. Ibi ran her fingers along the threads of gold, but Atem's eyes were drawn to the center of the box, where another trinket sat trapped between folds of silk.

He pulled the fabric away, exposing a breathtaking ivory comb. It had long, delicate tines, each one evenly spaced from the next, coming to sharp and distinct points. But the handle of the comb was even more complex: carved into the sturdy ivory was a lioness head, its deep-set eyes staring straight through Atem's soul. The lioness's mouth formed the handle of the comb, with its two sharp fangs jutting out on either side.

"Sekhmet," Atem whispered, tracing his hands along the comb. He and Ibi exchanged knowing smiles, until Rashef suddenly shuffled over to see what had drawn their attention.

"Ah, you found it!" he said, his beady eyes lighting up. "This, dear prince, was one of my rarest finds. This headdress was once worn by Sitra, the legendary High Priestess of Sekhmet. Sitra was said to have served as personal guard and military commander under Pharaoh Khufu. She defended the Giza complex against invaders while her king built his tomb beneath the Great Pyramid."

Atem listened skeptically as Rashef spoke. He knew well the legends of the Giza Pyramids, but he had never heard this tale before. Regardless of the artifact's authenticity, however, it was undoubtedly beautiful and exceptionally well-made. And, having seen Satiah's ka and its patronage to Sekhmet, this seemed like a most appropriate gift for her.

"I'll take it," he said definitively.

Rashef clapped his hands together in excitement. "A wise choice, my prince — a wise choice indeed. That'll be fifty gold pieces."

Atem took a pouch of money from his belt and handed it to Rashef. "I trust you can do the accounting," he said.

Rashef nodded, taking the pouch over to a clean shelf and spilling out the contents. He grinned as he counted out each piece.

Atem turned back to Ibi, who was still staring longingly down at the headdress. He picked it up by either side, the waterfall of links swaying gently back and forth. He held it out to her. "Would you like to try it on?" After Ibi gave him a puzzled glance, he added: "Just so I can see how it looks."

Apprehensively, Ibi took the halo of gold in her hands, lifting it up and placing it down on the crown of her head. She ran her fingers along the dangling threads of gold, arranging each piece to her liking, then turned and smiled at Atem.

In a moment that should have set his heart alight, Atem was left feeling suddenly empty. For even though it looked as if the headdress were made for Ibi, it would soon grace the crown of another. He forced himself to return her shining smile.

"Perfect."