She would find a way to beat the odds. She would find a way to land safely. But in the meantime, she had no intentions of shortening the fall.
* * *
Even by the opulent standards of the royal palace of Nessarah, the library was an imposing room, and one which was very different in style from the rest of the palace. The ceiling was not decorated with traditional tiles but was elaborately moulded, painted in a soft palate of gold and celestial blues, the central fresco depicting a summer sky with light fluffy clouds of the sort never seen over the Nessarah desert. In contrast, the vast floor space was laid with simple polished flagstones, and just as sparsely furnished. Four long, highly polished reading tables doubled as cabinets for storing papers, but there was not a single other item of furniture or any form of seating. A harem sentry guarded the other side of the door through which Tahira entered for her pre-sanctioned private visit. On the opposite wall, light streamed in from a vast arched window.
Every other inch of available wall space was taken up by books and scrolls. Thousands of them, in shelves which climbed to the ceiling. A narrow gallery ran at half-height, reached by a single narrow, spiral staircase which required the intrepid reader to walk around the full length of the library to reach the books on the furthest side. A single freestanding ladder on wheels provided access for the reader to the lower shelves. The library, created and largely populated by Tahira’s great-great grandfather, was not a place often visited by her more recent forebears. No catalogue of any sort existed, and she had never been able to divine any system for the placement of tomes on the shelves. In this sense, every visit to the room was a voyage of discovery, but it could also be highly frustrating. As a result she had started her own system. In effect, creating her own library within the library, relocating, book by book, scroll by scroll, the volumes in which she was interested.
Today however, she was not consulting any of those previously read works on Nessarah’s history. The book which lay open on the reading table was bound in red leather tooled with gold, and intriguingly entitled The Art of Love. It was not the first book she had perused today, but the illustrations in The Garden of Delights had appalled her. Such contortions appeared more likely to induce pain rather than delight, and the book, while it contained a great many words in praise of the male member, contained no relevant information on how to minister to it. The Art of Love, which she had discovered between a guide to the art of an Italian painter, and a notebook containing household remedies, was a very different matter. There were no illustrations and no poems eulogising male prowess. Instead, the book was a practical guide to giving and receiving pleasure, narrated alternately by a man and a woman.
She had not progressed beyond the early chapters, for the descriptions brought to mind her own experiences. Christopher’s kisses. The way her nipple had tightened when he took it into his mouth, the way she had arched under him in response. The tension. And the heat. Which Christopher, according to the book, had been experiencing too. Eyes closed, seated cross-legged on the floor, she tried to imagine what he would feel like. Silk and iron, the book said, but such a combination was too strange. His chest was hard, solid muscle, expanding and contracting as he breathed. He was clean shaven, though his cheek was rough compared to hers. Would his chest be smooth, or would there be a smattering of dark-gold hair? And his nipples? A flush stole over her cheeks, embarrassment mingled with excitement. Her own nipples peaked against the silk of her camisole, proving that the little book was right. Arousal did not require physical contact. But she did touch herself, imagining her hands were Christopher’s, imagining his skin against hers, his rough palms on the soft skin of her breasts.
Only when she slid on to the floor, her breathing ragged, did she remember where she was. Thankfully no one would disturb her with the sentry outside. All the same. Tahira closed the book and got to her feet, placing it carefully on her own shelves before wandering over to the window. Though it looked out only to a rather boring courtyard with a rather plain fountain, at least from here she could see the sky. Cloudless again. It would be another clear night for their work at the tomb. It would take them several nights, Christopher had estimated, before they would be ready to break through to whatever was on the inside. He was working longer hours than she. She had asked him to promise not to work when the miners were there, not in daylight, but he had avoided answering her. though he had promised he would not enter the tomb unless she was present.
Ishraq had informed her today that Ghutrif was planning to make the betrothal announcement at an upcoming camel race, organised specially for the occasion, which all of the princesses would be permitted to attend. A camel race was a rare, exciting treat, but Tahira heard this with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. There would be a huge crowd. Ghutrif was making certain, with such a very public pronouncement, that this time the marriage would definitely go ahead.
Fortunately, Ishraq was beside herself with excitement, more than compensating for her elder sister’s distinct lack of enthusiasm. It was the one good thing to come of it, for now that she knew Tahira was soon to be wed, Ishraq was her former sunny, loving self. As for Durrah and Alimah—yes, they were upset, but they too were excited by the prospect of attending a camel race and very shortly after, the wedding celebrations. They were thrilled that Tahira was to marry such an eligible man, and were already talking of bridal visits while Tahira—just thinking of anything bridal made her nauseous. She didn’t want to marry this man. She didn’t want to think about it, so instead she would think about Christopher. Again. Her escape from reality, because reality was simply too unbearable to contemplate. Was that wrong? She didn’t care. Tonight, she would once again inhabit her dream world, with her dream man. Tahira closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around her waist and transported herself there.
* * *
The large rock formation where they brought their camels to a halt two nights later was not unlike the turquoise mine, the craggy rocks the same russet red colour, the soft sand tinged with the same hue. ‘What is this place?’ Tahira asked.
Christopher shook his head, dismounting before helping her from the saddle. ‘A place where wishes come true, I hope.’
Just like the turquoise mine, there was a fissure between the rocks, though this was much wider, forming a passageway open to the night sky. Tahira followed in Christopher’s wake, leading her camel a few short steps before stopping with a gasp of amazement. The low rock cliffs encircled the space to form a natural arena carpeted with soft sand, which shelved down towards a large pool bordered with juniper trees, their foliage lush. On the far side, a narrow cascade of water fell with a mesmeric murmur into the pool like a shimmering sheet of white silk. Through another gap in the rocks, the desert landscape was framed like a painting, a ribbon of similar rock formations growing ever higher into a mountain range until it looked to Tahira that they formed a staircase to the galaxy of silver stars pinned above.
‘How on earth did you find this place?’ she said, turning to Christopher.
‘I have the Midas touch, remember?’
He had hobbled the camels, discarded his headdress and cloak. His hair had grown longer, thick ripples of gold fell over his brow, giving him a distinctly raffish look. The deep tan of his face made his eyes seem as blue as the oasis pool. This man, this fascinating, fiercely attractive, fearless and driven man, had gone to all this trouble for her. A lump rose in her throat. She felt as if her heart were being squeezed, making her breathless, unable to speak her gratitude, so instead she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, pressing her cheek against the hard wall of his chest, the unique scent of him mingling with the verdant green of the oasis, the salty, heady taste of the desert night.
‘Tahira?’ Christopher flattened his hand over her hair, running it down her long plait to rest on the slope of her bottom. It was becoming a familiar caress, and it had a familiar effect, both reassuring and arousing at the same time. ‘Are you disappointed?’
She lifted her head, smiling up at him, for once caring not that he would see the sparkle
