Chapter 1: Bathhouse at Dawn
The steam rose in fat, lazy curls, carrying the scent of crushed roses and warmed marble. It settled on my skin, a fine, dewy kiss. I trailed my fingers through the water, watching the ripples distort the reflections of the painted ceiling above. My Empress was a vision of submerged gold, her fiery hair fanned out around her like a sunset on the water, her eyes closed.
“Your shoulders are like stone again, my sun,” I murmured, pouring a stream of jasmine oil into my palm.
She made a low sound in her throat, neither agreement nor denial, but permission. I set to work, my thumbs pressing into the knotted muscle at the base of her neck. She was always carrying the weight of the dynasty there. I felt it unspool slightly under my hands.
“Harder,” she breathed, and I obeyed, leaning my weight into it.
A shadow cut through the mist on the other side of the pool. Marisa, sleek and silent as an eel, slipped into the water. Her eyes, sharp and laughing, met mine over Angela’s head. A challenge. Always a challenge.
She drifted closer, until her body was a warm line along Angela’s back. I didn’t pause my work. Marisa’s lips found the shell of Angela’s ear. I saw the shudder it elicited, a fine tremor that ran through the Empress’s frame.
“You taste of salt and power,” Marisa whispered, her voice a low purr that competed with the gentle lap of the water. “Did you crush the trade ministers today, or simply melt them with a look?”
Angela’s lips curved, though her eyes remained shut. “The former is more satisfying. The latter is less messy.”
Marisa’s laugh was a dark, delightful thing. Her hands appeared, sliding over Angela’s oil-slick shoulders, down her arms, intertwining with her fingers. An invasion of my territory. My rhythm faltered for a half-second.
“Benedetta has you all loosened up,” Marisa said, her breath hot against Angela’s neck. “Good. Now you’re pliant enough for better things.”
I kept kneading, focusing on the ridge of her spine. “Pliant is not a word I would associate with our Empress.”
“Quiet, both of you,” Angela sighed, but it was a contented sound. She tipped her head back, offering more of her throat to Marisa’s clever mouth. “You are my balance. Benedetta’s hands unwind the day. Marisa’s mouth makes me forget there will be another.”
The words were a benediction and a delineation. I was the calm. Marisa was the fire. We had our places.
But Marisa never knew her place.
Her hands drifted lower, skimming over Angela’s ribs, beneath the waterline. My own hands stilled. This was beyond casual affection. This was a claim, played out in the steam. Angela’s eyes snapped open, that piercing green suddenly focused and dark. Not with anger, but with a predatory interest. She watched Marisa’s reflection in the water.
“So bold,” Angela murmured.
“You prefer boldness,” Marisa countered, her fingers tracing dangerous paths. “You get enough deference from the court. You don’t need it from me.”
A flicker of something crossed Angela’s face—annoyance, or admiration. It was hard to tell. She reached back, her wet hand tangling in Marisa’s sleek hair, not quite a caress, not quite a pull. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply deciding if your boldness is inspiration or insolence.”
The air thickened, hotter than the steam. I felt invisible, a sculptor frozen mid-touch. This was their dance, a push and pull of power and permission that left me breathless on the sidelines.
Marisa, never one to retreat, pressed her advantage. She nipped at Angela’s shoulder. “Insolence is more fun.”
Angela moved then, a sudden surge of water and muscle. She turned, breaking my contact, facing Marisa. Water sluiced down her chest. She cradled Marisa’s face in both hands, a gesture that could be mistaken for tenderness if you didn’t see the fierce possession in her grip.
“You think you know what I need,” Angela said, her voice a low vibration in the humid air.
“I know what you want,” Marisa breathed, her defiance unwavering, her body arching toward the touch.
For a long moment, they were a statue of tension and desire. Then Angela’s gaze cut to me, over Marisa’s shoulder. My breath hitched. Her green eyes were unreadable.
“Benedetta.”
“My Empress?”
“Leave us.”
The words were soft, absolute. A dismissal. The warmth of the water turned shockingly cold against my skin. I had seen her dismiss generals, scribes, supplicants. This was the first time it felt like a wound.
I rose, the water falling from me in sheets. I did not look at Marisa, whose triumph was a silent scream in the room. I wrapped a linen sheet around my body, the cotton clinging to my damp skin.
“The oils are here if you require them,” I said, my voice thankfully steady, the good ancell to the last.
Angela didn’t answer. She was already drawing Marisa closer, her mouth finding that spot on her neck that made her gasp. The sound was muffled by the steam and the roaring in my own ears.
I walked across the cool marble, my footsteps silent. At the arched doorway, I glanced back. They were a tangle of limbs and red and brunette hair, lost in a world of their own making. Angela’s hand was splayed possessively across the small of Marisa’s back.
I turned and stepped into the corridor, the relative chill of the hallway raising gooseflesh on my arms. The guard stationed outside gave me a neutral nod. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. This was normal. This was the dynamic. She had her moods, her whims. She favored Marisa’ wildness as much as she favored my peace.
But the dismissal clung to me, damp and uncomfortable as the sheet.
I walked slowly toward the private chambers, the silence a weight after the echoing whispers of the bathhouse. A servant rounded the corner, bowed low, and scurried past. The dynasty marched on.
From behind the heavy bathhouse door, a sound echoed down the hall—a sharp, loud slap, followed by a moment of dead silence, and then Marisa’s bright, unrepentant laugh.
I stopped walking.
Angela’s temper was a swift and violent storm. Marisa’s daring often skirted its edge. That laugh meant she had weathered it, or better, thrilled to it. A game I had no stomach for.
I continued to our rooms, the Empress’s empty chamber feeling vast and hollow. I stood by her great bed, the silks cool under my fingertips. This was my place. Yet, for the first time, the certainty of it felt thin. The sound of that slap seemed to hang in the perfumed air, a reminder that favor was a fickle sun, capable of both warmth and brutal, scorching light.