My kisses with Bahar were gentle. Innocent. They didn’t make the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up, nor did they make my blood simultaneously rush to my cheeks and groin. The girl runs her hand up my jaw and then around my neck, her fingers lightly brushing the curlicues of hair at the nape. Without thinking, I tilt my head slightly, fitting our mouths tighter. Deeper. Where my hand grips her wrist, her flesh burns, feels like stone when I was certain it was soft moments earlier.
Cheers and laughter erupt in the background. The girl breaks the kiss, her mouth wet in the firefly glow. Her golden eyes are wide, oddly curious. On a normal day, the crowd would have shouted at us for being vulgar and told us to get bound for the next three lifetimes. But, on Chandni Raat, kisses are seen as auspicious, are even encouraged to promote future bindings.
I slide my fingers through the girl’s. The curiosity in her eyes vanishes, sharpening to something else when she focuses on the king’s emblem fastened to the front of my turban.
“Come,” I say with a glance at the merchant, who still watches us with suspicion. “Let me take you home.”
The people in the crowd laugh again.
“Stole your heart with that kiss, did she, boy?”
“Gave him a little something in return, too!” someone else says, pointing at my dhoti.
The statement makes me grit my teeth. The girl’s radiant smile edges on a smirk. For a second, I can almost pretend that the warmth in her eyes is real.
“Keep up the act,” she whispers into my ear. “The thanedar is eyeing us like a dustwolf.”
I ignore the jolt that goes through me at the brush of her lips and draw her away from the scene, weaving through the crowd that, by some miracle, has decided to indulge us for being young or stupid or perhaps both. A few moments later, the girl lets go of my hand.
“Don’t get too attached, pretty boy.” Her voice has the texture of gravel and honey. “I might burn you.”
I feel my face grow hot with embarrassment. “I have no intention of getting attached,” I inform her as coldly as possible. “What possessed you to steal from that merchant anyway?”
“What are you talking about? I wasn’t steal—”
“Don’t you know how dangerous it can be for people like us?”
The girl frowns. Her mouth opens, as if to say something, then shuts again.
“Which part of the tenements are you from, anyway?” I continue. “I don’t remember seeing you before.” It’s likely I might have missed her. The tenements outside the city of Ambarvadi are spread out over only fifteen square miles of land, but nearly a hundred thousand non-magi live within its boundaries. On the other hand, she may not be from the northern tenements at all, but a villager from the tenements in the southern part of the kingdom.
The girl says nothing. A faint flush colors her cheeks. Unlike the other women at the festival, she wears no jewelry, except for a simple black cord around her neck with three silver beads in the center. I decide to fill the silence. “I’m Cavas. From the west end of the tenements. I work in the stables at the palace.”
“Cavas,” she says my name out loud, as if testing it on her tongue. “How did you, uh, know I was, uh, from the tenements?”
I smile. “Magi generally don’t need to steal coin.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course.” I’ve seen it happen before. The king’s messengers sounding the news throughout Ambar, thanedars raiding the tenements for possible suspects, making arrests, tightening the rigid laws already in place for non-magi.
“I know it’s difficult sometimes,” I tell her now. “My father and I have nothing to eat some days. But it’s better to earn an honest living than to get arrested for attempted theft.”
Unless lies are the only way you can survive, a voice taunts in my head. I push it aside.
She stares at me for a long moment. “You’re wrong.”
I frown. “About earning an honest living?”
“There was no attempt at theft. When I do attempt to steal, I rarely fail—especially in a crowd like this.” She’s about to add more when her eyes narrow on seeing something—or someone—behind me. “Hide. Now.”
“What are you talking—”
She gives me a hard push, nearly knocking me into a nearby stall. That’s when I see them—a giant thanedar in white, along with the merchant from before. The latter is pointing at the girl and shouting. “There she is! The girl who tried to steal my purse! Thief! Thief!”
Another thanedar reaches out to catch hold of the girl. He screams in agony as flames lick at his sleeves—a cheap magic trick that can be purchased at any stall—a trick I’ve seen some non-magi use whenever they want to evade detection by the thanedars, even though it never works for long. The girl skips backward, ducking behind a man with a cane, and lets forth a trill of mocking laughter.
“Thieving girl!”
“Catch her!”
But they cannot. The girl truly is a shadow, weaving around a group of desert musicians and a pair of dancers balancing several clay pots on their heads, before sliding and disappearing into the stall of a Javeri seamstress. The fireflies, I notice, seem to be helping, no longer flickering out, but plunging entire areas of the festival into darkness and chaos. Screams erupt around me. I duck behind a clothing stall, next to several tall rolls of fabric, to avoid being knocked over. A group of thanedars thunder past, the outlines of their white tunics glowing in the dark.
Then light breaks through, a giant orb of it bursting out of a thanedar’s lathi, hovering in the air overhead. Other thanedars follow suit, and soon the bazaar is suffused with harsh white beams. I press myself farther into the rolls of fabric when I notice the
