She had lost her mind, she was sure of it. Never in her life had she done anything remotely like this. The closest she had gotten was the time she’d run away from camp, which she’d just told Salim about, and that was half a day and she’d only gotten a couple of miles.

This was breaking the law in a foreign country, and egging a foreign prince on to do the same, passing right by multiple signs that warned against trespassing, and insisted that climbing on the bridge was forbidden.

But the cool breeze felt good on her bare legs, whipping her skirt up and bringing with it a clarity that cut through the exhaustion and the booze from dinner and the drama that had surrounded the whole tour. She could see little peaks on the dark water beneath them caused by the wind, and she felt more alive than she could ever remember feeling not on stage.

She couldn’t say for sure why she was doing it, only that she had a vague sense that she wanted to give Salim something that he couldn’t get for himself. Perhaps the only thing he couldn’t get for himself. Plus, that strange desire that she didn’t know if she wanted and didn’t have a name for, which compelled her forward.

Ophelia knew he was behind her. He was surprisingly fit and agile for someone who didn’t use their body for a living, and kept up admirably well. She let her pace lag so that he was right behind her, until she swore she could feel the warmth from his body.

They had to stoop down as they went to keep their heads from hitting the underside of the bridge above, but luckily, the ledge they were on was plenty wide and Ophelia felt herself in no danger of falling.

When they got to the center, she carefully sat down, and Salim did the same beside her.

“We’re lucky London’s in the middle of a warm spell,” he said. “I can’t imagine this bridge on a cold day.”

“Maybe London knew we were coming.”

Salim smiled.

“Oh, I don’t think anyone’s ever really going to see us coming.”

Ophelia felt herself blush deeply, but hoped that the dark of the night, punctuated only by the occasional light from boats passing below and reflections of the water, hid her embarrassment.

She’d heard a lot of cheesy lines in her life and in her line of work. But it was the way he’d delivered this one—like he hadn’t really thought it through, and didn’t mean to say it. So much of the time, Salim’s words felt so measured.

“Maybe the next time you decide to radically change your career overnight, you should become a tour guide,” she said, trying to lighten the conversation. “You really do know the best places.”

At that, Salim let out a long, genuine laugh. It hit her ears with the same refreshing feeling that the wind hit her skin.

“We’ll have to go into business together, then, because I really only did half the work to get us here.”

Ophelia smiled.

“All right, if I fall off this bridge and can’t dance anymore and have absolutely no other career options to pursue, I’m going to hold you to that.”

In the relative darkness, she could see his face turn to her.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to let you fall. But you have a deal.”

That sat for a moment in silence, until Ophelia broke it.

“It really is a beautiful place, though.”

He nodded, and seemed to regard it. The water and the night. The quiet and the wind and the lights coming and going.

“It’s been a beautiful evening, from start to finish. And I have you to thank for most of that.”

Ophelia smiled.

“And I have you to thank for some of it.”

“I do what I can.”

They sat for a long while, looking out at the view together. He should kiss her, she thought. And then again, and again, as they talked.

He asked her about home, about Santa Barbara. She told him about endless summers and beautiful beaches, and the bike rides down long paths and the sound of the crashing waves that felt like the heartbeat of her childhood. And she told him about the hordes of tourists, and the way they all felt like they owned a piece of the place because they were visiting it, and how wrong it felt that they were all going away thinking that they knew anything about it at all.

But she told him too about the quiet winters, when it felt like the town came into its own. The way it felt like all of them were the hosts of a party, and the winter time was when all the guests had gone home and they could all breathe again. She told him about the way it made the whole town feel like a family. There was something that bound them that way, more than other places that didn’t have that kind of tourist industry.

She asked him about his country. She had to stop herself from asking him too much about Al-Shyla, actually. The country fascinated her as much as the way he talked about it did. He was always saying things to minimize its size or its wealth. It was like humility, but on a country-wide scale. But, at the same time, she could see how much he loved it. Watching him try not to show how much he actually liked the country he spent all his time running away from was like watching a boxing match with one competitor who doesn’t realize he was fighting himself, but was doing a marvelous job of it, anyway.

And he agreed with her about the winters there being the best time, the way that they were in Santa Barbara as well. But for Salim, he said it was more to do with the weather. He told her that all summer, you feel like you’re at war with the outdoors. It’s so hot and oppressive. So you shuttle around in air-conditioned cars between air-conditioned spaces. You only go outside at night, along with everyone else, so that you feel like you’re all fugitives together from the heat.

But when winter comes, it feels like the world has finally made peace with you. For a few short months, you feel welcome in your own country. When his father switched his dishdasha from summer white to a darker winter hue, Salim always felt a sense of rest come over him.

“It’s a bit like your show,” he said. “Every summer, we put ourselves back into the tower. Back into all the tall, gorgeous glass towers. And when we’re allowed out in winter, life feels real to us. Because it’s better. But, if you think about it, the country isn’t how we live a few months out of the year. The country is how we live most of the time. I don’t come from a desert by the sea. I come from a glass tower.”

She looked at him wryly.

“You mean, you come from a palace.”

He laughed.

“Yes, you have me there. But the country I come from, I mean. The country isn’t a desert, it’s a tower. For most people.”

She watched her legs dangling over the edge of the beam.

“You picked a sad story to compare your country to,” she said, and she felt him shrug beside her.

“You picked a sad story to introduce yourself to the world in.”

She laughed.

“You think I chose the story?”

“Are you going to tell me you didn’t have any kind of say?”

He had her there, and she wondered if Tomas had talked to him at all about the conversations she’d had with him and Maxim prior to the season’s show being announced.

“I guess I had a little input.”

Salim nodded.

“I figured you might have. Tomas is a smart man. He knew how important it is that you connect with the role you’re given. If he wanted this ballet to be your company’s real introduction on the world stage. Which it is. Which it will be.”

Ophelia heard herself sigh.

“And you think a princess in a tower is a role I particularly connect with?” she asked, feeling more tired by the moment.

“It makes sense,” Salim said. “With your talent, and how hard you must have worked. It’s hard to imagine you weren’t…isolated, in some way.”

A chill ran up Ophelia’s spine. If only he knew how close to the truth he was. But she shrugged it off.

“And who’s to say that it’s not the other part of it that I connect with? The part about not knowing what’s real and what’s not, and if what you desperately want is actually what you need, or if it’s killing you, in the end?”

She must have been even more tired even than she thought. Or, was she just really that desperate to get the conversation away from how sheltered she was?

He rubbed the back of his hand against her arm reassuringly.

“Well, then I’d say that’s a very human thing to connect with. I’d say that’s something we all feel. And maybe that’s part of why it resonates so well with the audiences here, as well as in the States. And why I think it’ll resonate with audiences wherever we go in the world.”

She looked at him again, the outline of his profile against the dark background. She’d been instantly struck by how attractive his features were when she’d first met him. She hadn’t realized they were kind, as well.

Ophelia changed the subject, bringing up some tiny detail she wanted to raise with the choreographer prior to the Madrid performance. Salim seemed to understand her wanting to shy away from the deeper waters they’d wandered into.

Eventually, the adrenalin faded, and the tiredness that had begun this entire adventure returned. To his credit, Salim noticed, and suggested they go back. Heading back down was easier than going up, but with the cumulative effort of everything, Ophelia found that when she reached the pathway along the river, she was shaking.

And then, suddenly, she wasn’t. Suddenly, in one motion, she was up in Salim’s arms, laying against his warm, broad chest.

He wouldn’t kiss her, but he would carry her?

She wanted to protest, but at the same time, she found herself grateful and settling into him.

“It’s the least I can do,” he said, in response to her unspoken protest, or her unspoken thanks—she wasn’t sure which.

Ophelia didn’t think she slept—not really—but she also couldn’t quite remember most of the trip back to the hotel There was a taxi involved, she knew that much, but she was back in Salim’s arms immediately afterwards, and the next thing she knew, she was standing at her door.

He should kiss her. She thought it again. Now was the time.

She waited.

But instead, he reached down to her hand, laying loose at her side, and brought it up to his lips. Gently, slowly, he kissed it.

“Good night, Ophelia,” he said, in that same, quiet voice that she’d come to like the best out of all his inflections.

And then, he was gone.