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My mind seems to go very, very still, as though it’s holding its breath.

The brief silence draws my attention to the pain in my shoulder, my cheek, my stomach.

I feel surprised, curious, and hopeful —so hopeful, though I cannot figure out why I’m feeling anything beyond simple confusion.

And there’s another sensation again, like water rushing, surging?—

You can hear me? This time, when the masculine voice speaks, it’s in Latin. Rough-edged, accented Latin but Latin all the same.

My breath catches. Should I respond? It’s probably a bad idea. No, it’s definitely a bad idea.

Yes , I say anyway.

At my answer, I feel a wondrous thrill and breathless joy.

At last! he says, though I don’t know if he’s speaking to me or not.

What’s that supposed to mean? I say, unnerved. I want the voice to go away, not for it to be eager to speak with me.

I will tell you more tonight , the voice says, but I cannot talk at the moment. I’m trying not to get killed.

Killed?

It takes a moment for the rest of his words to sink in. Wait, what’s this about tonight? The voice is making plans? Oh, no, no, no.

We’re not going to speak again , I insist. Not tonight or any other time.

We are , the voice says with horrible certainty.

He mentioned just now that he was trying not to get killed. I can’t make sense of that. But I do know this: death is a permanent end. Probably even for wretched voices in my head.

Then I hope you die, so I never have to hear you again. It’s a vile thing to confess, even to an abstract voice.

I don’t regret it.

There’s another pause, and I feel that rush of joy bleed away.

Just because you said that, I’m going to make sure I live , he says.

The voice retreats.

I wait a few moments, but I think he’s gone.

I was wrong. The voice is not gone.

Whatever this entity is, he clearly survived the ordeal he was in the middle of because I hear him talk incessantly throughout the day, through the fitting appointment Livia scheduled with stern-faced Septima—who eyes my outfit and hair with begrudging approval and my swollen cheek with obvious disapproval—and as we meet with the family of a Praetorian Guard to fit them with lighter, brighter fabrics for spring and summer.

His voice is there while Livia lectures me on our way home, and it’s there while Livia reads the notes on her wax tablet and I prepare dinner for her, my own stomach cramping from hunger. The voice has reverted into that other language. It’s coarse and guttural and drags goose bumps from my skin.

And it won’t shut up.

For the love of the gods, will you please stop talking? I beg after I nearly drop the pitcher of wine I’m pouring from.

I’m in a foul mood. My head throbs from the stress of having a second voice in my head, there’s still that phantom pain in my shoulder, and I’ve been struck several more times today by Livia for being absent-minded.

And that’s all on top of my gnawing, swelling hunger.

The cursed veil I’m supposed to detail remains unfinished, and I don’t dare defy Livia’s orders by eating.

I’m not talking. I’m thinking , the voice snaps back in Latin.

Well, it’s distracting , I say, annoyed.

I’ve had to listen to your voice for years, and you could never hear me when I told you to shut up. I’m sure you can bear it for a day.

I don’t breathe for a moment. You’ve been able to hear me…for years?

I hope I’ve misunderstood.

Unceasingly , the male voice responds.

My mind has been the one place in this entire world where I could find refuge. To know that somewhere out there, this voice, could hear my truest, deepest thoughts?

Just when I’d assumed the situation couldn’t get any worse—I shudder.

Please leave me alone , I beg as I move on to slice cheese and pull apart a thick wedge of bread, ignoring the way my mouth waters.

The voice doesn’t respond, and I think…I think he’s trying to honor my wishes.

Not that it stops me from hearing his voice in that other language intermittently throughout the rest of the evening.

But I don’t believe he intends to be speaking into my head.

It’s almost like my mind is listening in on a nearby conversation someone else is having.

It’s still distracting as sin.

It’s only later, when the moon is high in the sky and Livia has long gone to bed, that I finally return to the vexing issue of his voice.

I sit with my back to the wall of my bedroom, the unfinished veil in my lap and a needle in my hand. I sigh out a breath.

Are you there? I speak into my mind.

I wait for an answer. When none comes, I try again.

Hello? Can you hear me?

Nothing.

Of course the voice would be gone now when I actually want to speak to it—him.

Voice! I say, growing impatient. Are you there?

Gods, you don’t need to yell. And my name isn’t Voice. It’s Memnon.

I have the worrisome urge to laugh—and laugh and laugh.

I have lost it. Truly, I have.

I see you didn’t die , I say instead. I had been holding on to the slight hope that injury or blood loss might’ve taken him sometime between dinnertime and now.

Your disappointment gives me strength , Memnon says.

With his words, I feel a combination of annoyance and humor. The emotions are his , I realize. I’m not just hearing him speak—I’m feeling what he feels.

I push past my own discomfort at the thought. Are you hurt?

It’s nothing I can’t handle , he says gruffly.

So you are hurt. My pulse quickens. Where? I ask, even as my shoulder continues to throb.

I took an arrow to my back , he says hesitantly, right beneath my shoulder blade.

My breath catches. I can feel it , I admit.

I’m not entirely sure if the emotion rushing through me is mine or this voice’s, but it feels like fingertips touching, like connection.

I swallow, then make another stitch in the veil, the lamp propped on the stool next to me flickering in the darkness.

A part of me is curious about what this voice is. Logic is telling me that my mind simply turned on itself, but I badly don’t want to believe that.

What…are you? I say carefully.

What do you mean, “What am I?” Memnon asks, sounding affronted. I’m a man.

I’m not sure man is the right word to describe this voice. He doesn’t sound like a full-grown adult. More like a teenage boy.

So you’re real and not just a part of my own mind?

I’m real , he says. He must sense my deep mistrust because he adds, I’m staring up at the stars right now. I can see Orion the hunter.

Orion the hunter. That’s one of the few constellations I can easily recognize.

I cannot remember the last time I stopped and looked up at the stars, and right now, when my muscles feel leaden from a long day of work, I don’t want to move.

But curiosity spurs me to my feet, so I set the veil aside and pad to the doorway of my room.

Livia’s bedroom is to my left, and I pause, listening to her soft snores before I decide to tiptoe across our apartment and slip out of the house.

I have to shuffle down to the courtyard to get a good view of the sky.

Tonight is cloudy, but I can make out several scattered stars.

Among them are the three even dots of Orion’s belt.

The sight of the constellation makes my stomach clench.

So Memnon’s telling the truth.

Girl? he says as though I beckoned him. Are you still there?

Don’t call me that , I say absently as I head back up the stairs and inside. I rub my arms against the chill.

What should I call you?

My throat tightens as I slip into my room and pick up the veil once more. I resettle myself on the ground next to my lamp and resume stitching, ignoring the painful ache in my belly.

Instead of answering him, I say, So you can see the night sky. I’m sure all sorts of beings can see the sky. How do I know you’re an actual person and not some vengeful spirit or a capricious god?

I could ask you the same thing , he says.

I am thinking over that logic when he again asks, What is your name?

Do you truly not know? I ask, once more evading the question. I thought you’ve been hearing my thoughts for years.

You’ve spoken many names in your thoughts , he says, names that are already foreign and difficult to remember, and I have not been able to figure out if any of them are yours.

His admission sparks a curiosity in me. I know he’s not Roman. The language he spoke is coarse yet rolling, the sounds guttural. But there are a lot of cultures with guttural-sounding languages, and I don’t have a good enough ear to know which he might belong to.

Are you going to tell me your name? he prods.

I hesitate. People don’t usually ask me for my name. Formally, it’s Livia the Younger, my adoptive mother being Livia the Elder. Usually, if I’m being referred to as something other than Girl , it’s Livia.

However, I don’t want to give Memnon this blighted name I must answer to.

What would you like to call me? I say instead.

There’s a moment of silence. That seems like the sort of response a vengeful spirit would give , Memnon says.

I press my lips together to keep from smiling. That’s true enough.

I don’t like my name , I admit.

Then give me a different one , he says, unfazed by my answer. One that you do like.

I pause my stitching and stare absently off into the darkness. My mind races, my heart beating frantically.

I already know the name I would like to give him, and that is the name my Northern parents gave me.

But—and it’s one of my deepest shames—I cannot remember what that name is .

The only other person who might have once known it is Livia, though if she ever learned it, she must’ve discarded it as quickly as she came upon it.

I reach into my past, straining to recall any of the names of the people I loved—my sister, my mother, my extended family.

Instead, all I see are the flames that burned my village.

I can still taste the smoke on my tongue and feel the heat of that fire reaching out from the past, trying to swallow me up.

I have spent so long running from the memory of those flames that the names I cherished burned up with it.

The only names I can think of are Roman ones. This is actually a bit distressing.

And that’s bad because…?

I’m not Roman , I finish for him.

You aren’t Roman? Memnon asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

You’ve been listening to my thoughts for years, yet you never figured this out?

“Listening” is such a generous term , he says. More like “studiously ignoring.” After a moment, he adds, Do you want me to help you with a name?

Do I? The possibility sends a thrill through me.

Yes , I finally say. I do think I want that.

Okay , Memnon says.

He goes quiet for so long that I almost believe I am alone in my own head once more. The only thing that convinces me otherwise is the light, exhilarating sensation that I’m fairly certain belongs to him.

Roxilana , he finally says, his voice deepening with the roll of his voice.

The name brings goose bumps to my skin. It doesn’t sound anything like the Roman names I’m used to. It sounds untamable, like something beyond the Empire’s reach.

Do you like it? Memnon asks.

Yes , I say, a slow smile curving my lips. I like it. A lot. I am…Roxilana.

I swear I feel Memnon smile inside my head. The action causes my heart to gallop all over again.

Hello, Roxi , he replies.

I have to bite my lip to smother my smile. I haven’t even had my name for a full breath, and you’re already shortening it? I say.

Yes, well, you’re less terrifying as Roxi , Memnon says. Roxilana might cut my heart out of my chest, but Roxi…Roxi sounds like…a friend.

I want to tell him that we are not friends, that we just met and I’m still not fully convinced he’s even human, but…for my peace of mind, a friend sounds nice. Especially if he is going to be stuck in my head.

After a moment, I ask, What does the name mean—Roxilana?

If he tells me it means something like “donkey dung,” I will mutiny.

Does it need to have a meaning? he asks.

Of course it must , I say. I am a vengeful spirit and very easily displeased.

If I spoke to anyone else like this, I would be reprimanded. But with this man that’s not quite a man, I don’t need to be an obedient Roman girl. I can be whomever I wish to be.

I can be Roxilana. The thought sends a surge of pleasure through me.

I don’t know how I sense Memnon’s smile, but I do. And in that moment, I think it might be the most wonderful thing in the world.

Roxilana means “blessed one” in my language , he says.

The last thing I am is blessed, but I keep that thought to myself—or at least, I assume I keep it to myself. I have no way of knowing if Memnon can hear every stray thought or just the words I want him to hear.

Are you really a human? I ask.

I really am , he says.

I make several stitches in the veil as I make sense of the fact that fate somehow connected me to an entire other person.

Where do you live? I finally ask.

That depends on the season , Memnon responds. My tribe moves often, but generally we Sarmatians live near the Black Sea.

Sarmatians. I roll the word around in my mind. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of such a people. The Black Sea, on the other hand, I have heard of, though it’s as remote to me as Egypt and Anatolia. As remote as Britannia, the island I came from.

I’m in Rome , I say.

I try to imagine that distance between us, but I simply cannot fathom it.

How can we hear each other if we live so far apart? I ask. It defies nature.

This is the work of gods and magic, Roxi.

A shiver runs down my spine.

Memnon seems much more accepting of this situation than I am. Then again, he’s apparently had years to consider it.

I thread my needle through the edge of the veil, listening to the distant chatter of Romans still out on the streets.

If the gods are real, they have abandoned me entirely , I say softly.

No, est menulumguva amage, ? 8 Memnon says, they were merely preparing you.

I frown in the darkness. Preparing me for what?

Us.

1 ? Must stay on my horse…

2 ? Hurts so fucking bad.

3 ? Ignore the pain. Have to keep fighting…

4 ? Running low on arrows…

5 ? Can’t get the angle right with my arm shaking.

6 ? Damn this arm! The faster I kill my enemies, the quicker it can be over.

7 ? Of course the girl chooses now to speak. Right when I needed more distractions.

8 ? My future queen