A week had passed and still Arija could not get the Mariginese man out of her mind. She did not even know his name, but his green eyes haunted her, their intense gaze nearly burning her. No one had ever looked at her that way, as though she were the most important thing in his world.

"Arija!"

She blinked and whipped her head around to look at Lahleh. "What?" she asked.

"You have not moved for several minutes. What are you thinking?"

Arija frowned. "Nothing." She could feel her cheeks heating, and knew Lahleh had noticed.

"The question is, which man were you thinking of? The green-eyed suitor or the black-eyed prince?" Her sister's tone was teasing, but her eyes were serious.

"It matters not." Arija turned back to her weaving, only to discover it a hopeless tangle. How long had she tried to work before she had drifted away?

"You are allowed to think of them, you know. Your green-eyed man may well win this competition, and then you would marry him. If he does not, you may well marry your black-eyed dance partner."

"I cannot allow myself to think of either of them that way. X is the fortuneteller's son, the son of the woman who has ruined everything for us, and this prince…he cannot be allowed to win, no matter how handsome he is or that he would have married me."

Arija's head was running in circles. She could not allow a suitor to win the competition, for then her sisters, and possibly herself, would be unable to marry, and she could not complete the fortuneteller's task and allow the demon woman to win Arefi's daughters, even if it would mean they could all wed. So what was she to do? How was she to reconcile the two situations.

Lahleh's hand on her arm brought her back to the weaving tent. "Do not worry so much, sister," she said. "It is not for you to concern yourself about all this."

"I am the eldest. Of course it is my responsibility."

Lahleh frowned. "Perhaps you should tell Father what is happening. Surely he can help."

"You know what will happen if he learns the truth. He will stop us from dancing, and we will not meet our end of the bargain. The fortuneteller—"

"Do you truly still believe she has the power to harm us?" Nasimi asked irritably. Arija wondered how long she had been eavesdropping.

"I would rather be safe than sorry," Arija replied in the same tone.

Nasimi rolled her eyes. "For all your talk of being the eldest, you act like a child sometimes."

Despite her annoyance, Arija felt a small flash of happiness. Nasimi was returning to her old self. Perhaps she would stop being so strange, and at least one thing could go back to the way it had been before. It would be nice to have one remnant of the past, even an unpleasant one.

The tent was stifling. Castor had come in to lay down out of the relentless sun, but the shade it provided was not worth the oven-like feeling that came with it. Even a hint of a breeze would bring relief, but inside the tent there was no such thing.

Unable to take it any longer, Castor rose from the pile of cushions that served as his bed and opened his satchel. After a month of travel and a week in the desert, his supply had depleted more than he would have liked. He hoped it would last until the end of the contest. He was already beginning to note tremors in his hands when he went too long without it. He could only imagine what would happen if he ran out.

He took a pinch of the herb and tucked it into his cheek. Not enough to bring visions, just enough to get him to sleep for a few hours until the sun went down. The taste of nightflower filled his mouth, but his mind was full of the image of Arija. Her face, more beautiful than he'd remembered it, leaned in close, and the voice he'd never heard except in dreams whispered, "I had to. Forgive me. I am so sorry." Her lips brushed across his forehead, and he wanted nothing more than to grab her and pull her lips down to his own, but he wouldn't move. Couldn't.

He awoke sweating in his darkened tent, his vision still burning in his mind. He had never had one so vivid, not even under the influence of nightflower, and he had barely taken any before falling asleep. Had he had a true vision, enhanced by the small amount of the herb he had consumed?

Castor rose and cleaned himself as well as he could, though water for washing was unavailable here in the desert. He was glad the sun had gone down. He needed a walk in the cool night air to clear his thoughts.

He made his way through the camp, weaving between irregularly placed tents, ignoring the loud laughter that came from them. The far side of the oasis, he knew, was clear of competitors' tents. It would be quiet there.

Castor was surprised to see someone already there, and even more surprised when he recognized her. Arija. He knew he should turn around and leave her alone, but his feet were already leading him even more quickly to her side.

"Good evening, my lady," he said politely by way of announcing his presence.

She jumped and scrambled to wrap a thick-looking cloth over her hair. "Good evening," she said shyly as she did so.

"You don't have to do that," he said hastily. "Really. In my country all the women go around with their heads uncovered."

"I am not from your country. Here it is considered most improper for a woman to be uncovered when she is not among family."

In spite of her cold tone, her voice rolled over him, the unusual accent he had gotten used to sounding wholly new coming from her mouth. He was sorry she had covered her hair— he wanted to see if it was as beautiful as it looked in his visions.

"I apologize. I thought you would be more comfortable without it," he said quietly.

"I am quite comfortable, thank you."

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a long moment. Castor fought to think of a way to continue the conversation, but nothing came to mind that wouldn't reveal how much he knew about her. Deciding it would be best if he didn't frighten her off by demonstrating his knowledge, he started at the beginning.

"May I ask your name?"

"Arija." The name flowed off her tongue with a beautiful trill.

"I'm Castor."

"From Marigina."

It wasn't a question, but he answered anyway. "Yes."

"Why did you come?" The sharp tone was back in her voice, and she met his eyes for the first time. Her gaze pinned him down, the black irises examining him with all the authority of the oldest daughter in a Pynterri family.

Castor swallowed and took a deep breath. "I was to be betrothed to you until your father dissolved the engagement in favor of this contest."

"Why pursue it? Why not marry someone else?"

"It's a strong alliance."

Arija cocked an eyebrow, demanding further explanation. What was he supposed to tell her? It's destiny? She would never believe that. I love you? That would require even more explanation, and it would lead back to his visions. She couldn't know about those.

"I wanted to. My father would have wanted me to."

She nodded, understanding filial obedience, at least. "When did your father die?"

He looked at his feet, finally cowed by her stare. "A few months ago. The night I received word of this contest, actually."

"I am sorry for your loss. My sister lost her mother not long ago; I know how it hurts."

"Thank you."

A distant voice called Arija's name. "I must go," she said. "Good night, Castor."

"Good night," he replied, glad at least that they had ended the conversation on a polite note. Perhaps there was hope for their relationship yet.

Arija struggled to slow her racing heart. Even as she hurried away from the Mariginese prince— Castor, she corrected herself—, she could still smell his peculiar scent, one that was vaguely familiar, but that she couldn't place. What had just happened? He had approached her, and she had attacked him. What had she been thinking, to speak that way to a stranger, a suitor, no less? The boldness that had begun all those months ago, when she had begged Arefi for another month to complete their deal with the fortuneteller, was starting to get out of hand. She had misled the fortuneteller, lied to her father, tricked dozens of men into taking the drugged drink that would protect her sisters' secret, approached her dance partner, and now confronted a suitor who had once been her betrothed. Where was the meek girl she had once been? When had she become so improper, so disobedient?

The fortuneteller, she thought. It all went back to her.

"You were with someone," Lahleh said when Arija reached her. "Dare I ask who?"

Arija shook her head. "It matters not. It will not happen again."

Curse the green-eyed man! Appearing at her side while he was on her mind, as if her thoughts had conjured him, avoiding her questions, talking about his father. She did not want to sympathize with him, she wanted to be furious at him for competing in the contest and haunting her thoughts.

Lahleh, perhaps sensing her discomfort, did not question her further. Their tent was already bustling with activity as her sisters dressed. The twins were already in the adjoining tent, ensuring the competitor would not follow them through the trapdoor. Arija dressed quickly and moved aside the cushions that made up her bed to pull open the door. For the entirety of the walk to the boats, Arija thought back to her encounter with Castor. She wondered if he had sought her out on purpose. Something about him had been off, a glimmer in those green eyes that reminded her of a competitor they had had in the past who had been quite mad. It had been all but impossible to persuade him to take the drink provided him, so fearful was he of being poisoned. He had not been far wrong, Arija thought. Like so many others before him, he had gone home empty-handed.

Arija remained distracted as she danced with X, losing the beat frequently and bumping into him or stepping on his toes. Each time she almost involuntarily offered an apology, and it was not until an hour later when X took her hand and led her out into the garden that she noticed how preoccupied she had been with her thoughts of Castor.

"I apologize," she said as soon as she and X were out of earshot of the others. "My thoughts were elsewhere."

He cocked an eyebrow, reminding her that the last time she had acted at all like this, she had recently discovered her father had wasted his money on a foolish competition. She shook her head.

"It is nothing like that. I had a…a disturbing encounter with one of the suitors. Nothing happened," she said quickly as X's brows furrowed in anger. "He was just a strange man."

He frowned and refused to meet her eye. Was he angry at her? Was he jealous?

Arija shook her head at the thought. X was her dance partner, nothing more. He had no choice in the matter, no more than she did. There was no reason for him to be jealous of Castor, or anyone else for that matter.

He is simply worried this man might discover our secret and reveal it to Father, she told herself firmly. He does not want to be cursed forever.

"You do not need to worry. Castor will not win this competition. I swear it."

A smile flashed across the black-eyed man's face and was gone. He reached over and took her hand, his thumb gently stroking her palm. Something tingled through her, and she jerked her hand back before X could go any further.

"We should get back to dancing."

Without another word, Arija turned to go back into the ballroom, leaving X to follow her on his own. He caught up to her quickly, took her arm, and pulled her into another series of dances. She was distracted again, but this time for an entirely different reason. Now it was her dance partner who haunted her thoughts, the fire she had seen in his black eyes that set her mind to spinning. Had she been right the first time? Was he jealous of Castor? Was it possible he felt something for her?

She wished she could ask him, but having such a conversation with someone who couldn't respond except in gestures seemed wrong, somehow. He would be unable to explain himself, and she…what would she even tell him, if she was right? She felt nothing for him, nothing besides perhaps attraction. How could she explain that to him while he remained unable to reciprocate?

She felt X's gaze on her, intense, questioning. He was worried about her, she could tell. Worried that someone might have hurt her, that she was too upset to tell him everything that had happened. She caught Lahleh watching her, too. She hated being the center of their attention; she wished they would turn it elsewhere.

By the time the dancing was done, Arija was more tired than she had been since she and her sisters had first begun their nightly pastime. Completely drained, she curtsied in farewell to her partner on the dock and staggered up the stairs and through the trapdoor. She barely had the energy to pull her bed cushions back into place before she collapsed onto them, fully clothed, and fell asleep.

For EVA, who wanted this meeting (though of course this was long written. But here it is).

Drop a review!

~Mazzie