Heart of Glass - By Sasha Gould Page 0,34

four more men rush into view. Reinforcements. Halim’s eyes meet mine. No point fighting now. I nod and we run.

“Catch them!” comes a shout.

We dart around the side of the church and into a small alley that twists and forks. The pounding feet of our pursuers never seem far behind. I grab Halim’s arm and we switch back around a deserted sculptor’s yard. Half-finished blocks of marble, faces emerging from stone, watch us impassively.

“There!” I hiss, and we run towards a pile of swollen wooden barrels, their metal rings red with rust. We duck behind them, kneeling in piles of dried leaves and cobwebs.

I can feel my heart hammering in my chest, my sides hurting from the constraints of my corset. We peer through spy holes from behind the barrels and wait. Halim pants beside me, his skin slick with sweat. The heat from his body seeps through my gown.

Shouts echo, but in the distance. No one else approaches the yard. Our breathing slows, and after a few long moments, Halim grunts.

“We’ve lost them,” I say.

He stands and pulls me to my feet, my joints stiff. I realize I’m still holding the sword, which he pries gently from my fingers. “No need for that, now,” he says, dropping it to the ground. I see his hand and wrist are covered in blood.

“You’re hurt,” I say, touching his arm lightly.

“It’s not mine.”

Neither of us says what we both must be thinking: We could easily be dead right now.

There’s a sound of shuffling steps and I tense. But it’s only an old woman, chasing a cat, her back stooped over nearly double.

“Come back here, you toothless wretch!” she calls after her pet. Halim and I laugh with relief as we watch her hobble after the ancient, skinny animal.

“Let’s get back to our boat,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve seen enough of Venice for one day.”

I follow the prince out of the square.

17

When we arrive back at the gondola, Halim’s men have mysteriously reappeared. How could Halim possibly have gotten a message to them? But he ignores them and stoops to clean the drying blood from his forearm. This time, he doesn’t hold his hand out to help me, and one of the guards steadies me as I climb down. Halim has thrown himself back on the velvet seat, his hand to his chin. He is deep in thought, his eyes not seeing the waters of Venice that lie before him. I sit quietly by his side.

But as the boat moves out into the canal, he speaks.

“These happy times you were telling me about earlier. Do they involve a suitor?”

I’m startled by the line of questioning, so soon after we barely escaped with our lives.

“You want to talk about love and romance at a time like this?” The question’s out before I can stop it.

“Of course!” Halim says, sweeping an arm across the vista. “How could we not in a city as beautiful as this?”

I roll my eyes. “You can drop that act now. We can both stop pretending that we’re on a sightseeing tour. Those people tried to kill us!”

The Turkish prince folds his arms, the shot silk glistening. “That’s not quite true, Laura. Those men tried to kill me. You just got in the way.”

Is that supposed to make me feel small? As if I don’t count? Is he so full of self-importance that, that … “How do you know that?” I ask, ashamed at how high and squeaky my voice emerges.

Halim allows his gaze to travel down my body. It feels like a scorching bolt of lightning, and my arms move protectively around my waist. “How could anyone kill a creature as beautiful as you?” he murmurs. “Now, please answer my question. Lovers? Suitors? Would-be husbands? Will one hand be enough to count them?” He holds up a hand and pretends he’s about to list off my love interests.

I shake my head, more irritated than I know I should feel. “No one. There’s no one,” I say as we pass beneath a bridge. Thank goodness for the shadow covering my face. My cheeks flare with shame at my own lie. Why am I denying Roberto? Why don’t I tell Halim about my one true love? I fall into silence and reason with myself: Halim does not deserve to know my heart. And I do not wish to share Roberto’s current pain with anyone, much less a handsome prince who thinks he can charm the birds out of the trees.

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