The atmosphere intensifies when we step inside. What walls looked run down on the outside are perfectly kept here, smooth panels of cream-colored stone with gold molding winking from every corner. A hall stretches down the center of this level, polished tiles glittering in a rainbow of colors on the floor and drooping plants keeping guard outside dozens of curtained alcoves.
I blink, certain I have to be seeing wrong. Every other part of Summer has been in a state of near collapse—but not this place? Why—and what is it?
An answer appears when one of the curtains to the alcoves shifts and a woman swaggers out, making her way to a staircase at the far end of the hall.
My eyes open so wide I feel them try to pop out of my skull.
She’s completely naked.
Garrigan gags on his shock. Conall lurches toward me, realizes there is no immediate danger, and settles for tight-lipped glowering. Theron blushes so dark his skin turns a deep purple-red, such an odd expression for him that I almost laugh.
Ceridwen doesn’t react at all, however. She marches down the center hall, throwing a nod at a man who rushes out to greet us. My contingent stumbles after her, silenced by our varying levels of shock and discomfort. The alcoves birth a few more people, curtains fluttering back to reveal the types of women we saw on our way into the city lastnight, the ones clad in very little, along with men dressed just as scantily. Most lounge on chaises, beds, their limbs strewn, hair askew, and outfits more so. And, usually, they aren’t alone. The customers who populate their alcoves range from people in the tattered, dirty garb of peasants to the fine silk wraps of the upper-class.
This place is a brothel. And apparently feeds Summer’s economy regardless of class. How tolerant of them.
I suck in a breath and thank every piece of luck I’ve ever had that Nessa didn’t come. I don’t even want to imagine what Conall and Garrigan would have done, had their innocent, sheltered sister been thrust into a place like this.
Heat overwhelms me, makes sweat bead over my forehead and spread across my spine, waves of it dripping from the lack of ventilation and the way the noon sun heats the exterior of the building. This brothel feels more like an oven, and as we plunge farther down the hall, Theron next to me, Conall and Garrigan pressed against my back while Henn lingers behind, I half expect the sleeping men and women around us to start sizzling like they’re being cooked.
Ceridwen leads us to an alcove in the back right corner. There, flimsy curtains part around silk-covered pillows that glisten as the people sprawled on them writhe in sleep.
She waves within. “Here you are,” she snaps, and shoves back through us, leaving us standing there, blinking in shock between the alcove and her retreating form.
Theron’s brows rise. “I’m getting the feeling we’re not welcome here,” he whispers.
I smile at him. “Maybe you, Rhythm prince.”
He rolls his eyes and flickers a small grin at me before turning to the alcove. Five people sleep within, from what I can tell—they all overlap in a tangle of hair and limbs, shimmering satin and glinting gold jewelry.
“King Simon?” Theron tries.
No one moves.
Theron’s jaw tightens. “King Simon Preben,” he tries, louder.
Out of the hodgepodge of bodies, a head pops up. Even knotted in a web of pillows and other people’s limbs, he’s obviously young—not quite as young Theron or me, but no older than his midtwenties. Scarlet hair cuts in a tangle across his eyes, one of which he cracks open with a rumbling groan before touching something at his wrist. After a moment, he sighs in relief and refocuses on us, eyes curious.
Did he just use his conduit to cure his hangover?
Simon surveys Theron, lifts a brow, and shifts his attention to me.
“Burn me to a crisp! Is it morning already?” His face lights up as he springs to his feet. The movement rocks consciousness into the people woven with him, eliciting moans of displeasure that he brushes off as he stumbles over the bodies to teeter before us.
At which point I make a noise halfway between a gag and a scream and duck my head to avoid seeing far more of the Summerian king than I ever wanted.
He’s just as naked as the woman we saw moments ago.
Simon either misses my reaction or ignores it. “Queen Meira! I have beenmostlooking forward to this—”
Theron clears his throat, not at all gracefully, and Simon barks laughter.
“Oh!” he says like he’d honestly forgotten. “Terribly sorry—one moment.”
There’s shuffling and a few more grunts from the still-sleeping courtiers in the alcove, and after a moment Theron nudges me, presumably because Simon has put away his . . . um . . .
The first time I ever see a man naked, and it’s the tactless Summerian king. Lovely.
I risk a look up at him to see that he’s draped a bundle of scarlet satin around his waist, and while he’s still not exactly dressed, I’ll take it.
