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The dynamic between Memnon and I has changed.

It has been changing for a while, but at some point between when my magic Awoke and when Memnon’s did, there’s been this giddiness to our conversations, one that’s left me breathless.

It’s like trapped laughter in my belly, so light and wonderful, I feel it could carry me away.

I haven’t allowed myself to place a name on this emotion I feel when I speak to Memnon or think of him. I thought I was protecting my heart by doing so.

But I was wrong.

I didn’t need to give the joy inside me a name for it to be crushed under the burden of reality.

Are you busy? I ask as I enter my bedroom, carrying a lit terracotta lamp in my trembling palm. With my free hand, I wipe away the tear tracks that stain my cheeks.

Never for you , Memnon says.

My stomach flutters at those words, loosening the knot in my belly. When did this man begin saying such devoted lines to me? Has he always done this? And if so, then when did I begin to take them seriously? Because I tuck away each sentiment like treasure.

I set the lamp down and, in the low light, unclasp the fibula at my shoulders, letting my stola slide down my torso. I step out of it, clad only in my tunic now.

What is it? Memnon asks.

I swallow as I remove the last of my garments and pull on a clean tunic.

I run my hands through my hair, a little of my magic slipping out to loosen my updo.

I can hear Livia moving around her room as she too readies herself for bed.

She shouted herself ragged earlier and twice came at me, but I think the heat of her anger is banked for the night.

I still remember her shrill voice. “You thought you’d live off me forever? You’re a woman. It’s your duty to marry! I’ve put it off long enough.”

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. The truth is right there, but I don’t know how to begin any of it, so I settle on: I had a bad day, and I wanted to hear your voice.

I sense devotion and another sweeter, deeper emotion from him, one I’ve also refused to name.

I wish I could give you more than my voice. Memnon hesitates, then continues. I wish I could be there and hold you in my arms until all your pain and sadness were gone.

I sit down on the edge of my bed, more tears stinging my eyes.

He continues, I would whisper into your ear all the ways you are incredible. Because you are. You are the most incredible part of me, and honestly, if you need me to kill someone ? —

Memnon! I bite back a laugh, though I know he can feel my amusement breaking through my sadness.

His tone grows serious. And if you were still sad, I would tell you that you’ll get through it, that I’m here to help carry the weight of hard days. He hesitates again before pushing forward. And then, if you’d let me, I would kiss you, Roxilana, and I would savor the sweetness of your lips.

I don’t think I’m breathing. Or—wait, I am , only there’s not enough air for my lungs to take in.

Memnon , I finally say.

I don’t know what he hears in my tone, but he laughs, the sound stroking me from the inside out.

Did you not like that? He doesn’t sound the least bit dejected. Fine, let’s just be friends.

My face crumples then, and I bury it in my hands. Why have we never openly talked about this? We most definitely should have.

My heart aches and aches and aches because of the unfairness of it all. Memnon is encased in the confines of my mind, closer to me than anyone else in existence, and yet he’s still so far out of my reach. Too far.

And now that he’s offered it, I want that kiss and everything else that his presence promises—but that’s not my fate. All the yearning in the world won’t save me from what’s going to happen.

Roxilana? he says.

I’m still here , I say softly, drowning in my own misery.

He hesitates, maybe sensing my emotions.

You and I will always, always be friends , he finally says.

I nod to myself, pressing my lips together. We will , I agree. That is something, at least.

But if you could have more with me , he continues, would you want that too?

I lift my head from my hands, surprise masking my other emotions. Magic leaks from my palms and my heart feels like it’s in my throat. It’s as though he pulled my own deepest wish out of the recesses of my soul.

Yes , I whisper down our bond.

It’s utterly still between us for a moment. Then, Memnon’s reaction floods me. I feel his exaltation and his relief.

Thank the gods , he says.

Despite my predicament, my heart races and my own joy rises now that we’re finally, finally admitting this.

Would you want that? I ask.

I feel his giddy smile. Would I want that? Memnon repeats disbelievingly. I have waited years to hear these words from you and to tell you how I truly feel.

How do you truly feel? I ask timidly.

Like I could conquer the world just to lay it all at your feet. His voice turns serious. Roxi, you are my first and last thought each day. I have longed for you more than I care to admit—not just as my friend and confidant but also as my lover and wife and amage .

I can hardly catch my breath, and I feel so light I might float away. I’m shaking a little and smiling like a fool. When did it get like this? When did my own emotions become so intertwined with his?

The thrill of it draws out more pale orange magic from the palms of my hands, magic that only I and presumably other magic wielders can see.

You want me to be your lover? Your wife? I say softly. Memnon has kept the meaning of that last term— amage —from me, but it doesn’t matter. I understand his intentions well enough.

I feel Memnon smile then, and the sensation does something funny to my stomach.

Yes , he says. We were meant to be together. I am yours, Roxilana. Just say you will have me.

I feel like a silly girl when I realize there’s wetness on my cheeks—not from sadness this time but from hope . For a moment, I let myself fall wholly into the possibility of us.

Of course I will have you. Giving into my feelings for Memnon feels like magic itself—beautiful and impossible and wondrous. Nothing else in my life has ever come close to this all-consuming euphoria.

Until, that is, the reality of my life creeps back in.

As soon as I remember my earlier conversation with Livia, bile rises to the back of my throat.

“You selfish, little ingrate,” Livia said. “You will agree to marry whomever I choose, or I’ll turn you out onto the streets, and we’ll see how long you last there.”

A shudder works through me.

Livia hasn’t yet made any significant wedding plans, but she mentioned a few names of potential spouses.

There’s the lecherous jewelry maker with rotted teeth, Marcellus, who stares at my breasts every time we visit him for metal clothing adornments.

But then there’s another suitor, Titus, the textile merchant who smells like soured wine and unwashed body odor, who stands too close and spits when he talks.

Both men are old enough to be my father—possibly even my grandfather. But Livia doesn’t mind, so long as my marriage means she’ll get a familial discount on items she needs for her business and that, perhaps, she’d get to keep me on as her assistant.

A chill rolls through me as I try to imagine that life—married to a man whose touch I wouldn’t want, working for a woman who has mistreated me for years.

I knew I’d have to marry eventually, and I knew I likely wouldn’t get a choice or even much like my options.

But I hadn’t expected to feel so desolate.

Roxi? Memnon says, calling me back.

I take a deep breath. Yes?

I feel another grin and the bright happiness that alights our connection.

I have been making plans, Roxi , Memnon says excitedly. If he’s aware of the bleak turn in my thoughts, then he’s trying to draw my joy back out. I just needed to know you felt the same as I did before I acted on them , he continues.

Plans? I echo.

Do you remember what I said to you the first time we spoke? Memnon asks.

You said many things to me , I respond slowly, not following.

I told you the gods were preparing you for us.

You did , I agree.

The preparations are over , he says.

I’m still not following.

Little witch , he continues. I’m coming for you.

I startle. What? I say with disbelief.

Just as Memnon and I have never openly talked about us, we’ve also never talked about meeting. I’ve always assumed it was because it would require traveling across the world, a nearly impossible endeavor.

At least, I assumed it was.

Memnon wants to come for me.

Hope—hope so vast I could fit oceans into it—rises in me.

Across our bond, Memnon grins again. I do.

My own lips curve up, and all my emotions are twisting and twisting.

Memnon, wait. I push the sentence out. There’s something you should know.

I feel like my heart is cracking apart. If there is nothing better than true love, there is nothing worse than doomed love. I swallow and pick at my tunic.

Livia is arranging a wedding for me. I think I might sick myself, admitting this. I rush the rest of the truth out. She’s still deciding between grooms, so it won’t be immediate, thank the gods, but it will surely happen before you could ever arrive.

The connection between us grows ominously quiet. I can hear my own ragged breaths as I wait for Memnon’s confusion or perhaps some sad and wounded response.

I should know better.

Some poisoned emotion spills down our bond. Not confusion, not sadness.

Jealousy. Vengeance.

No, little witch , he finally says. I hear his ominous laugh. You won’t be marrying anyone besides me. His voice is confident and uncompromising. I am coming for you. I will leave tomorrow at first light, and I will get there before a wedding takes place.

And when I do , he continues, I will make graves of these grooms and anyone else who comes between us. Violent delight threads his words. You’re mine.