Passenger (Passenger #1) - Alexandra Bracken Page 0,140

of color and pattern that ran along the walls, through the carpets, and even to the bundle of clothing that had been left outside of the door.

The careful consideration that had gone into crafting the courtyard was staggering; everything was in brilliant balance. There had been no hesitation to invite nature into the heart of the house. Instead, nature had been given a place of honor, a patch of sunlight to thrive, and a perch on which it could be admired. The effect was breathtaking.

The sun warmed Etta’s back as she walked toward Hasan. He stood and busied himself with piling bread and fruit on two plates, and poured steaming cups of sweet-smelling tea from a gleaming silver pot.

Nicholas’s hand finally released hers as he moved to sit at the opposite end of the table, still lost in the winding paths of his own mind. Etta had woken that morning to find him sitting in front of the tiger, staring into its face. She had sat beside him, smiling as he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. His skin smelled sweet, like milk and honey, and he’d shaved and trimmed his hair. Etta ran a hand over it.

“You’re looking especially clean this morning,” she said.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, “so I brought water up for a bath, and then more for you. The water should still be warm.”

Pure joy exploded in her. “I could kiss you for that!”

“By all means,” he said coyly. “Don’t hold yourself back on my account.”

Etta kissed him soundly, then followed him to the next room, where a porcelain claw-foot tub squatted, completely at odds with its surroundings. Nicholas washed her back in comfortable silence until she asked, “What are you wearing?”

A white undershirt was partly hidden by what was either a luxurious gold vest or snugly fitting jacket, over which was another long patterned crimson coat that hung down over silky, loose pants. A gold sash had been knotted around his waist.

“According to Hasan, shalvar,” he said, pointing to the pants, “a kusak,” gesturing to the sash, “and an entari,” landing finally on the robe-like overcoat.

Nicholas left to retrieve her own clean set of clothes, and she was momentarily stunned by the beauty and richness of their fabric as he laid out the layers: a sheer gömlek, an under-tunic; a chirka, a short, tight under-jacket of emerald that buttoned up over her bust; next, shalvar, loose gold and sapphire brocade trousers that narrowed at the ankles; and an entari of her own, in a matching fabric to the shalvar. Finally, a small gold cap she pinned to her hair, and a white veil, a yashmak, that affixed to it and covered everything but her eyes.

When she finally washed the grime off her skin and out of her tangled hair, Etta stood and began toweling off, scrubbing until her skin was pink. Nicholas drank in the sight of her with a tenderness on his face that just about did her in.

“Am I a scoundrel?” he had asked, clearly more to himself than her.

Etta smiled, stroking the lines and scars on the back of his hand. “I believe I’m the scoundrel in this situation.”

He gave her a long look she didn’t understand—his eyes were heavy with a darkness that sent a chill straight through her center.

“Do you regret it?” she whispered, suddenly self-conscious.

Nicholas seemed startled by her words, shaking his head emphatically. He took her face between his big, warm hands and kissed her so deeply, she felt her toes curl against the floor. “Never. Never.”

But those had been the last words he’d said; he hadn’t even managed a cheerful greeting to their host. Etta couldn’t understand it—if that look hadn’t been about what they’d done, then what was he thinking about?

“Eat, eat!” Hasan said, his warm smile at odds with the rough bruises on his face from his fight with Nicholas. “Little niece, you look beautiful. How do you find our manner of dress?”

The first word that leapt to her mind was overwhelming, which was hardly fair. The entari and shalvar were beautifully crafted; the layers of sapphire and emerald silk and brocade were beyond luxurious, even if they were heavy. She was glad for them, though, not just because her dress from London was nearly in tatters, but because she did feel more comfortable blending in, and being respectful of the customs in this place and era.

“Wonderful,” she said. “Thank you for taking care of us.”

Etta accepted the heavy plate of food gratefully, barely