Eliana ran her hands down her front, turning left and right in the mirror. She winced a little as she brushed against the bandage under her bodice.

“You could cut it,” she mused. “I’m tired of managing it. The moment I take out my braid, it breeds a hundred new tangles. And cutting it might help disguise me a little.”

Dani made a thoughtful noise. “Now there’s an idea.”

“Remember how my hair used to look, back when I wore it short?” Ester pushed herself upright with a little breathless oof, then dropped a kiss on Dani’s head. “We could try something like that.”

“Yes, I do remember, and stop bending over, you beautiful pregnant fool.” Dani waved her hands at Ester. “Go sit down, put your feet up.”

Simon entered the room, his eyes locking with Eliana’s in the mirror. She resisted the urge to gape at him. He wore a long, black coat that buttoned at the waist over a vest of black brocade, with coattails that fell to his knees. A high collar, a gray cravat. Black gloves; silver cuff links gleaming at his sleeves. High, square shoulders, the architecture of which resembled wings in flight. He had shaven at last, though his hair was still a tousled mess.

When he moved past Eliana, the blazing nearness of his body tugged at her as surely as if he had touched her and pulled her along after him.

“Actually,” he said, addressing the others, “I wonder if I might speak to Eliana alone for a moment.”

Dani and Ester exchanged glances.

“For a moment?” Dani said, straight-faced. “Or perhaps for an hour or two?”

Ester elbowed her in the ribs and grabbed her arm. At the door, Dani turned once more.

“Just please don’t rip the dress,” she said. “If you do, I refuse to mend it.”

Ester pulled her into the hallway with a choked laugh and closed the door behind them.

In their absence, Eliana could only bear the thick silence for the space of a heartbeat.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” she said. “So clean and fine. I hardly know what to think of it.”

Simon smiled a little, then moved toward her and helped her down from the low, flat stool on which she stood. “And then there’s you,” he said softly, his blue eyes glittering as they moved over her body. He let out a long, slow breath, and for a moment she thought he would say something about her appearance. But then a shadow fell over his face, a darkness unlike any she had seen him wear before, flittering and strange, and he turned away from her. He went to the window and stood rigid before it, looking out over the wet, gray world.

“Patrik was fitting me for my Jubilee clothes just now,” he said.

Eliana raised an eyebrow. “Really? I would never have guessed. Isn’t this what you always wear?”

“I was standing there, listening to him prattle endlessly on, and suddenly I couldn’t be there anymore. I couldn’t spend one more moment in that room.” His fists opened and closed at his sides. “I had to see you.”

“Well, here I am.” The longer he stood there, brooding at the window, the greater her uneasiness became. The expression on his face, faintly reflected in the window, was a terrible one.

“Yes, and I can’t even look at you,” he said. “When I do, I want to abandon all of this. I want to forget my training and my mission, defy the Prophet, run away with you like a lovesick boy.”

She moved toward him, her heart skipping against her ribs. She knew she shouldn’t delight in his distress, and yet she did, because it mirrored her own—and because he was a man invincible against most things. But not this. Not her.

“Simon,” she said, reaching for him. Then she hesitated, lowering her arm. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I should stay away from you,” he muttered as if to himself. “Until we leave for the Jubilee, I should want you nowhere near me. And yet, here I am.”

She gently touched his arm and turned him to face her.

“I don’t want you to stay away from me,” she said. “How much time do we have left? Less than a day.”

“Eighteen hours,” he said shortly, “before we leave for Festival.”

She had known that number, had been silently counting down with the passage of every hour. But hearing him say it brought tears to her eyes, and the ache in her chest grew, relentless, until it overcame the rest of her body.

He saw her tears and swore passionately, his face twisting into something almost furious, and reached for her. She met him halfway, their kiss hard and clumsy. His gloved hands slid into her braid, his fingers catching on the tangles, and she welcomed each sting of her scalp, because the small, sharp pain reminded her that she was alive, and so was he—at least for this desperate hour, at least for another seventeen after that.

He kissed her there against the wall, beside the window, his hands in her hair, and she pulled hard on his coat, tugging him as close to her body as she could. But it wasn’t enough. He was too far from her, and she broke away from him with a frustrated sob. A stupid, frantic voice inside her screamed that if she didn’t touch him, right then, that instant, he would disappear from her arms, never to be found again. She fumbled at his clothes, wild for the familiar, rough expanse of his skin. She reached beneath his coat, found his tunic, tugged it loose from his trousers, and when her palms met the warmth of his bare back, she pressed a kiss to his neck and sighed his name.

And then he was tugging up her skirts, lifting her against his hips, and when he entered her, it was swift and hard and everything she craved. She wrapped herself around him and held on, dizzy with him, utterly enveloped in him. His cheek scraped against hers; he whispered her name.

After, as they clung to each other, she pressed her forehead to his, breathing hard, and smiled a little. She touched his damp hair. “I still don’t love you,” she murmured, hoping it would make him smile, hoping it would soften her own grief.

But the expression on his face was utterly bleak, sharp and empty in a way that frightened her, and she knew it had been the wrong thing to say.

“Simon,” she whispered, but before she could apologize, he had taken her face in his hands.

“I need more of you,” he said, his voice low and hungry, his gaze roving restlessly across her face. His hands slipped down her body, tugging at her sleeves, her bodice. He buried his face in the bend of her neck, his teeth scraping against her skin. “Eliana, God help me, if I don’t have you again, I’ll lose what’s left of my mind.”

And there it was again—that strange, skittering darkness in his voice. An agitation in his movements, a slight manic curl in the laugh he breathed against her cheek.

She thought she understood. Time was hurtling them forward, and neither of them could do anything to stop it.