and what wasn’t. She did something foreign to her, who had been nicknamed little rat; she didn’t try to find her way through the maze of Sanyu’s words to the meaning at the center of them. She allowed herself to be comforted by the superficial because, though it had always been the most likely outcome, the thought of leaving at the end of the marriage trial seemed like losing something more than a goal.
He didn’t want another wife. That was enough for now. Wasn’t it?
“Smile again. You’re handsome when you smile,” she said, not wanting to think about it anymore. She felt a stirring in her chest when his lip curved down the slightest bit. She wanted to press her thumb there, trace the contour of his bottom lip.
“You’re handsome when you frown, too, if you want to keep doing that,” she added.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice low. Then his body tensed and he began to look around—as Shanti watched he began to shift into the brooding Highland king once more.
The sound of footsteps approached.
“Musoke,” he whispered, grabbing her hand and beginning to march in the opposite direction.
She stood still, anchoring her weight so he couldn’t pull her. “Why are you running from him?”
When he turned to her, the worry in his eyes was so stark that she reached her hand up to his face, cupping it and placing her thumb into the indent at the corner of his mouth like she’d wanted. His facial hair tickled her palm as his jaw settled into it; she could feel the clench of teeth and tic of muscle, though he looked so calm now that he’d reined in the fear in his eyes. He looked how he always did while sitting in meetings or stalking through the palace.
Was he always this anxious?
Several things fell into place for Shanti then. They were all assumptions, but they filled the space between her and the man she had married, who seemed to always be armored in anger and strength but might actually be clad in what so many men in powerful positions sported—fear.
“Sanyu!” Musoke’s voice rang out in the hallway, and Sanyu’s body went even more rigid. His expression hardened and the last of the light that had been dancing in his eyes faded.
“Husband,” she said as the footsteps drew near. “There’s a ceremonial spear on the wall. Do you want me to take his head off?”
He looked down at her sharply, eyes wide.
“You said you weren’t a murderer.” His Adam’s apple bobbed against the heel of her palm.
“I’m not. Musoke is clearly not human since he arrived so quickly to interrupt us, as if he sensed someone in the palace was about to have fun and needed to crush it. Maybe he’s Amageez incarnate like he pretends to be.”
Sanyu squeezed her hand and gave her a quelling look, as if Musoke might hear her.
“You’d kill a god for me, then?” he asked.
She pretended to contemplate the question. “I’d rather not, but to get rid of whatever puts this look on your face, yes. I would.”
Sanyu stopped pulling but didn’t drop her hand. He just looked at her, the same look he’d given her so many times during the first months of their marriage—like he wanted to talk to her, to ask of her, but didn’t know how.
His lips parted, as if he were finally ready to ask for what he needed.
“The Njazan king does not engage in public displays of affection with his wife.” Musoke’s voice cut through the tension between them like a blade, and Sanyu dropped Shanti’s hand as he turned toward the old man.
He bowed to show his respect. Shanti curtsied, but half-heartedly, toward the man who was already trying to replace her.
“The display of such emotions shows weakness, which is why they are interboten zu roi.” Musoke’s gaze was still on Sanyu, and he didn’t seem to notice his lapse from Njazan into Liechtienbourgish. “Holding hands with the foreign woman who attacked your advisor is not the way of the Njazan king.”
When she glanced at Sanyu he stood at military attention, his hands behind his back. Like the way he’d hidden his laugh, it seemed like something he did unconsciously. Marie’s words from the night before came to her.
“. . . modeling confrontation can be effective in populations where people are unhappy but don’t have a strong cultural history of protest.”
“I have a question for you, wise Musoke,” she said, forcing herself to use Njazan despite how Musoke had