Tobias shook the thought away. He wasn’t fond of Leila. He couldn’t be, because he was in the Sovereign’s Tournament, and he was competing to marry Cosima—a Woman he hadn’t any interest in. His heart beat faster. This is a problem. No, it wasn’t a problem, because he wasn’t fond of Leila. He didn’t think of her, didn’t find her smart, or beautiful, or intriguing, didn’t delight in her smile or long to spend time in her company.
Oh God, I’m fond of Leila.
Tobias’s lungs surged. When did this happen? He thought back to his time with Leila, waking in her lap, sharing stories in the stairwell, and a tremor ran through his body. Stop it. Then there was her sweet laugh and her warm touch, and a string of goose bumps sprang from his arms. He balled his hands into fists.
STOP IT.
Panic set in. Anxiously, he looked across the sanctuary, half-expecting the competitors to be watching him, wise to his dirty secret. Instead Leila stood in the distance tending to the others; he eyed the ash on her face and dragged his fingers across her portrait, creating the same smudges on her cheeks and the adorable dot at the tip of her nose. Meeting his gaze, she stuck out her tongue, and his heart melted into a hot puddle, sending blood like magma circulating through his veins.
Oh my God, what is wrong with me?
Tobias ripped the canvas from the easel. Start again. His hand darted across the new page, creating something different—something for Cosima. It shouldn’t be hard; after all, Cosima was stunning. But Leila is stunning too. He cringed, forcing the thought from his mind. Cosima was kind. How do you figure? You’ve shared but a few words. Now Leila… Leila is kind. And funny. And she smells amazing. Tobias tightened his grip on the charcoal, nearly snapping it in half. Cosima. I’m here for Cosima. With a growl, he eyed the work he had been mindlessly creating for God knows how long.
Another drawing of Leila.
“Fuck!”
The sanctuary went still, all heads turning his way. Did I say that out loud?
“Apologies. Stubbed my toe.”
The others continued as they were, and Tobias turned to his drawing—a picture of Leila, her hair pulled over her shoulder. He ripped the canvas from his easel. Again. He would get it right this time. Think of Cosima. He pointed his charcoal at the canvas, but his hand remained still. Draw Cosima, but visions of Leila danced in his thoughts. Think of Cosima’s breasts. Her full, enormous breasts. But Leila has breasts too. Instantly, he was imagining Leila’s breasts in explicit detail.
Tobias scrawled across the canvas, creating a furious mass of black scribbles. FUCK YOU, TOBIAS. FUCK YOU, and his art mirrored his words, finishing off with a giant FUCK written straight across the canvas. His lungs heaved, his skin lined with sweat, and he ripped the page from the easel.
Start again.
He pointed his charcoal at the new sheet, his hand shaking. Think about what’s important. Think about what’s at stake. Finally still, he moved his hand across the page. You’re here for Cosima. You risk your life, day after day, for Her. Not Leila. And Leila may be good, but she is not your purpose. She will get you killed. Do you understand? This is scandal. This is blasphemy. You rid yourself of these feelings—you focus on Cosima—or you will find yourself in danger. And you will be killed.
The words held an unexpected sharpness that tied a knot in his chest. This can’t go on any longer. With a breath, he took a look at his most recent drawing.
Leila.
His heart sank. Another drawing of Leila. He rested his head on the wall, lamenting his miserable state—I’m so fucking stupid—and with a lackluster tug, he yanked the canvas from the easel.
Nothing.
He had used up all his canvas. Frantically, he looked down at the floor—at the four sheets, discarded, rejected. The work he couldn’t under any circumstances display before Cosima. I have nothing for the challenge.
What have I done?
***
The circle of men prattled endlessly, save for Tobias. He’d hardly said a word all morning; in fact, he hadn’t slept, or eaten, or done much of anything but stare at the labyrinth—and his four sheets of canvas, rolled tightly and tucked in the corner.
How could I have let this happen?
“Why in God’s name did you ask for a waster?”
The men continued with their banter, oblivious to Tobias’s catatonia. Flynn twirled his wooden sword in