“But you never said anything.”
“I tried to. You would not let me.”
It was true. Lada had been so absorbed in her misery, so jealous of how happy Radu seemed, that she had pushed him away that night he wanted to dance and talk to her. But that had been four weeks ago. And how could she have known he would be up to something like this? “You— It does not seem like you. I never thought you could do something like this.”
Radu stiffened. “You may have been the one who stopped the dagger last time, but I am the one who will know before the dagger ever comes close to Mehmed.”
Lada shook her head in numb disbelief. Radu had come to the same conclusion she had—Halil Pasha was still a threat to Mehmed—and instead of running around in the dark, climbing walls, prowling aimlessly through a house, he had figured out a way to protect Mehmed. A way that Lada, for all her training and ferocity, could never accomplish. No wonder he had not involved her in his plans.
“What can I do?” she whispered.
Radu’s voice was strained with exhaustion. “Stay out of my way.”
Lada stumbled to the door, ignoring Radu’s hastily called-out apology. She crossed the thankfully empty hallways to her own room, locked the door behind herself, and curled up on her bed.
She wanted to dream of Wallachia.
She failed at even that.
RADU LOVED DANCING.
The beat, the music, feeling it from his head to his toes as he twirled around the room in perfect synchronization with the other dancers. There was something achingly right about moving together, guided by sound, everyone part of something bigger, giving up individuality to create something beautiful. He did not have to think or feel or be anything other than movement. It was almost like prayer.
As one song blended into another, he danced with nearly every woman in the court. A flattering word, a charming smile, an assurance that they were his most graceful partner. And, of course, when handing them back to their husbands, an acknowledgment of what superior taste and fortune that man had to be deserving of the most stunning jewel in the room.
It was so easy to be liked, and so pleasant.
And so useful, too, he thought as he smiled and accepted an invitation from Halil Pasha’s son Salih to join him for a private supper.
Distractions were many and easy to come by. Most of the time Radu was able to reduce his desperation to talk to Mehmed, to be near him, to be reassured that he would still be part of Mehmed’s new life as a husband and a father. If he had enough to do, he could turn his thoughts of Mehmed from the loudest bleating trumpet to the softest whispering flute.
A woman with a full mouth and a face that shone as soft and sweet as the moon smiled at Radu from across the room. She was young, and though he did not recognize her, there was something familiar about her. He crossed to her, bowing.
“You do not remember me,” she said.
“I should be flogged for forgetting such a face.”
She laughed. “Your words are as sweet as honey, and as lacking in substance. I am Nazira, Kumal’s sister.”
Radu straightened, looking around in excitement. “Is Kumal here?”
“No, he hates the capital. I am here with my uncle, and only for tonight. I wanted to see this.” She gestured to the room, the glittering decadence.
“Ah.” Disappointment tugged Radu’s spirits down. He had long wanted to thank Kumal for his kindness during such a terrible time, for teaching him to pray when he had nothing else. Bowing again, he held out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
She nodded, and they joined the dancers. Radu kept Mehmed’s enclosure in view, watching from the corner of his eye, wondering if Mehmed saw him and wished he could join the revelries instead of sitting.
Nazira danced prettily, and at the end she thanked him with a secret smile. Radu saw that she danced with no one else after, instead staying close to a wizened old woman.
He was about to join Salih and several of the sons of prominent pashas when he noticed the one spot of stillness in the enormous room: Lada, slumped against a wall near a towering pair of gilded doors. Beneath her dress Radu saw that she wore not her favorite Janissary boots but a pair of beautifully embroidered slippers.
She did not look like she was secretly hoping to kill someone. She did not look like she was hoping for anything. She looked like Radu had felt when he saw Mehmed’s son.
A knife of pity stabbed into his side. He had tried to soften his words that night a week ago when she had nearly ruined everything by being caught spying, but she had fled before he could make her feel better. And part of him, a compact, dark lump of meanness buried deep in his chest, had been glad. Let her feel useless. Let her feel like a failure. Let her see that he could do things she never could.