There’s just one problem Hen and I didn’t account for. When I arrive at the palace, I’ll be one of hundreds, easily lost in the crowd. But here, I’m one of seven. Which wouldn’t concern me so much, if one of those seven wasn’t Gallus.
“Something to drink, adel?” a servant asks, offering me a tray bearing a single bronze chalice.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, admiring the tiny white flowers on its surface. It smells like vanilla, and I’m taking a sip when the servant adds, “The boy in green wanted you to know he sent me.”
And thus ends my happy time alone. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to go the whole evening without speaking to anyone, and it would be good to get in some practice as my alter ego before I have to face one of the heirs. I scan the deck for the boy in green, looking past a petite girl with russet-brown skin and a pale, rosy-cheeked boy at the rail, past a silver-haired girl who stands at the prow, and finally risk a glance at the two boys sitting with Gallus on the benches. I’m snickering that one of his friends thinks I’m worthy of a drink when I realize the boy in green is Gallus, and I spit the juice over the rail. Gods, I can’t believe that’s still his move, or that this is the second time he’s used it on me. I slam the drink back on the tray.
“Sorry. Can you tell him I’m not interested? And maybe that I have a contagious disease?”
The servant’s eyes widen. “A contagious disease?”
“Like heatstrain. Or magipox. Oh! Or moldmouth!”
Her eyes shift to the drink I put back. “Of—of course, adel . . .”
Except it’s too late. Gallus has pushed to his feet, obviously confused as to how anyone could resist his charms, and is making his way over. I pray to every god I can think of that his friends will laugh and call him back, or maybe the boat will capsize, but the gods must not be on speaking terms with me right now, because he keeps coming, unhindered.
This is not how this was supposed to happen. I’ve made it five moons pretending Gallus never existed, and I’d planned to go the rest of my life without talking to him again. Well, maybe not ever again, but definitely not until I’d done something fantastic and memorable, like this very event, after which I’d show up at his house and throw a cup of wine in his face, because that’s what important people do to people who told them they’re worthless.
I mean, Gallus didn’t use that word exactly. But he said he needed to get “serious” and invest himself in relationships with marriageable women, by which he means girls who have interesting futures and “real” magic. And certainly not girls who thought that’s what they had until he told them they didn’t.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard about me,” Gallus says, swaggering to the rail. “But honestly, I just wanted to invite you to sit—”
I pull away and start for the front of the boat. The other two boys watch me, amused.
“Hey,” Gallus says.
I keep moving. Gallus clearly doesn’t recognize me under all this makeup—he’d have a lot more to say if he did—and if I can make it to the silver-haired girl, maybe we can form an instant and intimidating alliance that will scare Gallus off for good. Considering what could happen to me if I’m caught, I don’t think Gallus would go so low as to reveal me to the priest, but I’ve been wrong about him before.
“Wait, were you at Kay’s last night?” Gallus says, jogging to my side. “I feel like I’d remember you, but if I was a jerk or something . . .”
I imagine he’s talking about some upper district party, and the urge to tell him that yes, he’s a jerk always, dances at the tip of my tongue. Gods, will anyone notice if I jump over the side? I bite the edge of my thumb, reasoning that at least revealing my identity that way would mean not having this conversation, when Gallus pulls my hand from my mouth.
“Zahru?” he whispers.
He looks stricken, and I know it has nothing to do with the embarrassment of sending me a drink. But maybe I think more clearly with a dose of panic in my veins, because I suddenly determine I’m not going to let him be the one who ruins this. After all, he doesn’t know I’m not a Master yet, or that I didn’t get an invitation on some miraculous recommendation. And in actuality this is the perfect comeback for how he broke things off, because I’m definitely the last person he thought he’d see here.
“Oh,” I say, barely glancing up. “Hello. Whatever your name is.”
“Zahru, you know who I am. What are you doing here?”
He pulls me to the side, out of earshot of the others, which I have to say is a relief. At least he hasn’t totally transformed into a self-righteous snob.
“Oh, you know,” I say. “Just checking out the competition.”
“What? How?” I might have been offended if I wasn’t drawing so much pleasure from the shock on his face. “No, it has to be a mistake. Does the priest know you’re only a Whisperer?”
“Don’t be a cod,” I say, like my heart isn’t hammering in my chest. “Of course he knows.”
“And you still came? Did you even think this through?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“This isn’t one of your little fantasies, Zahru. The desert is dangerous. There are sandstorms, thieves, wild animals . . .”
If only I could believe his concern was for me and not what I lack. “And I don’t stand a chance out there with all you ‘real’ magicians, right?”
“I’m serious. Just because we aren’t—” He looks past me, and my heart jerks with the hope that maybe being away from me has been hard for him, too, when he lowers his voice and I realize he’s just making sure no one else is listening. “Just because we aren’t together doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”
My heart pinches. “Don’t say that too loud. Your friends might hear.”
“Zahru—”
“Anyway, as flattered as I am that you think I could be chosen, you don’t have to worry about it. I know I don’t stand a chance. I just want to see the palace.”
“Ah.”
I know he’s itching to say he never thought I’d be chosen. Gallus never could resist an opportunity to lecture me about how naïve my dreams are, but he must have decided it’s not worth pursuing, because he stays silent. I really want to leave it at this and let us devolve into awkward silence, but it’s just occurred to me I can’t have him going back to his friends and telling them who I am. If my real name circulates, the priest might decide he’s irritated enough to look into it.
“And stop calling me Zahru,” I whisper, eyeing said priest, who sits with his servants in the clear glass cabin. “I go by Lia now.”