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smile at him, unconvinced but understanding he was doing his best not to subject her to his darkened mood. “I do as well,” she said as lightly as she could. “I expect there’s a thousand notebook sheets to scan by now.”
    “At the least,” he agreed, the fondness in his eyes catching at her breath.
    It is enough, she told herself. Charles might not be the easiest soul to be friends with, but as much as he cared for anyone, he cared for her.
    Contrary to her intent, the thought saddened her. She had chased her ordinary beaus away—their numbers greater even than her family knew—because the kind of life they represented didn’t interest her. Her relationship with Charles was probably the closest she would ever have with a male, and she knew better than to think he’d want to marry her. Why, in ten long years, they hadn’t shared so much as a peck on the cheek!
    There must be more than this, she thought, her unfamiliar surroundings giving the old desires new clarity. These can’t be all the choices a woman has. Married or a spinster. Fallen or alone.
    I wish I were different, she thought. I wish I were as bold as a Bhamjrishi.
    Charles led her beneath the market’s arching sandstone gate, his hold on her protective and secure. She had a sudden urge to throw off his hand, to run like a wild thing into the ancient city and disappear.
    I wish, she thought, her third of the day, that I were as strong and icy as that demon.
    If she had been, she’d be bold enough for anything.
     
    Pahndir waited until the Ohramese had left to rise from his chair. He made no pretense where he was headed, though the sari vendor watched every step with a knowing smile.
    He considered slipping her a coin to get the answers he desired, then decided she might take insult.
    “I’d like to know where those two were from,” he said.
    “Ohram,” said the woman, her head turned down to hide her amusement.
    Pahndir fought an urge to grind his teeth. “I meant, where are they staying here? Do you know if they’re part of the dig?”
    “They didn’t tell me,” the woman said—honestly enough, he judged. Her expression turned humorous again. “Couldn’t you go after them and ask?”
    He could, but such directness wasn’t the Yamish way.
    “Thank you,” he said instead. “I appreciate your time.”

TWO
    All that day, Charles thought about the Yama’s offer to feed from him. People came in and out of the cook tent buzzing with excitement, but he did his job of overseeing the excavation’s meals like an automaton.
    Hhamoun, as this site had been dubbed, was a big operation. Two hundred local diggers were employed by Herrington, plus a number of archaeological experts from Ohram. All of them had to eat, preferably well—which was Charles’s responsibility. Most days he thrived under the pressure, but today his head was caught up in its own demons.
    As far as he could tell, no one had noticed his distraction. Whatever he forgot to do, the local undercooks remembered. They were as quick as he was, and more adept at curries.
    All the workers here loved curries, regardless of their national origins.
    His mouth slanted with humor at how little his culinary expertise had been missed. He might have been better off had his crew needed more guidance. With nothing to keep his mind from wandering, the thought of going to The Prince’s Flame obsessed him more than ever—and the brothel had occupied his thoughts quite enough since he’d learned of its existence last summer.
    Bhamjran had a pleasure house run by a demon, with demon luxuries and demon whores. Charles wondered if the Yama’s human employees let him take their energy, if maybe they wanted the improvement in their looks the exchange could bring. Charles didn’t want his looks improved; his looks had brought him sufficient grief as it was. He certainly shouldn’t have wanted the act itself. On his own since the age of twelve, he’d spent a good portion of his youth doing