Salih met his eyes with a desperation Radu felt to his core. The desire there was raw and so obvious it hurt.
This was what Lazar had seen when Radu looked at Mehmed. A wave of humiliation and despair washed over him. Everyone had to know. If Radu was this obvious, surely Mehmed knew how he felt, knew what he was, even before Radu had.
Lada must know, too.
Rage flared up, eating away at his humiliation. He narrowed his eyes, refocusing on Salih in front of him. Sad, lonely Salih. Salih, who wanted him.
He brought his lips to Salih’s with a ferocity that bruised his mouth against Salih’s teeth. Salih opened his lips with a gasp as Radu grabbed the back of his head, sliding his fingers beneath Salih’s turban to knot them in his hair. Salih pawed at Radu’s tunic, tugging on the sash around his waist. He pulled Radu’s tunic up, and ran his hand from Radu’s stomach to his chest.
Radu did not know if this was desire or anger or disgust, or some combination of the three. He hated Salih for wanting him, hated himself for liking it, hated Mehmed and most of all Lada.
He kissed Salih harder.
The handle to the door clicked, and Salih jumped away from Radu, terror on his face. Radu turned to the shelf behind him and pulled out a book at random, opening to the middle. An illuminated page in artful Arabic script, the edges leafed with gold, blurred in front of him.
“Salih?” a deep voice lined with disapproval asked. “What are you doing in here?”
Radu glanced back to see Halil Pasha. The older man was out of breath and sweating. He glanced once toward the desk reflexively, then looked back at his son.
“We were looking for a book,” Salih said.
Halil Pasha finally noticed Radu. He took in everything, realization moving slowly across his face as his lip curled in disgust. Radu’s out-of-place tunic. Salih’s raw and red mouth. Radu felt as dirty as he ever had, the evidence of his manipulation of Salih written all over both of them.
“This is my private study,” Halil Pasha growled.
“I know! I am sorry. I thought— You were at the garden reception. Is it over so early?”
Halil Pasha waved a hand dismissively, but his tone was strained. “There was a murder. Some whore of Mehmed’s killed one of the guests.”
Radu dropped the book. Halil Pasha glared at him, but Radu could not react how he was supposed to. There could be no other woman there who would kill someone. No one but Lada.
“Wait. I know you.” Halil Pasha’s eyes narrowed as he finally looked at Radu’s face instead of merely registering his guilt. “You have grown. You were Mehmed’s friend, when he was sultan.” The realization finished clicking into place. “Your sister. I remember her now.”
Radu swallowed. “I must go. My apologies for interrupting your night.” Radu dipped his head, not looking at Salih, and fled.
He went to Lada’s room first, but it was empty. The vast hallways of the palace were empty as well, ominous with their lack of activity. Radu turned a corner, heading for Mehmed’s chambers, when he nearly ran into Lazar.
He grabbed the soldier’s arm. “Where is Lada? What happened?”
Lazar frowned. “She is in a lot of trouble. You should stay out of it.”
“Where?”
He sighed. “Come with me.”
They hurried down the hallways until they reached one of the rooms that, two days before, had been overflowing with food and drink and light.
Now, it held a trial.
Lada stood, straight and solid in defiance, in one corner. Murad, surrounded by several guards, stood at the other end of the room, nodding as an enraged man dressed in Italian finery screamed and gesticulated in Lada’s direction.
Mehmed stood in the center, watching his father with a mixture of veiled fear and simmering rage. To anyone who did not know him, it would have appeared he was merely bored. But Radu knew every expression, every change of his face.
Radu’s stomach turned, and he crossed his arms over his chest, as though he could keep his heart from eating itself with bitterness and loathing. Lazar put a hand on his shoulder. “We should go,” he whispered. “This is a dangerous time to draw attention to yourself.”
“Not yet.” Radu slid along the wall, disappearing into the milling crowds of whispering people. It looked as though most of the wedding party was here, waiting to see how the evening’s unexpected excitement would play out.
Lada was alone. The hem of her skirts was stained a rusty dark brown. One of her hands, too, bore the proof of her guilt. She made no attempt to hide it or rub the dried blood away. Instead, she stared steadily out at the room, looking as though she would like to continue the work of killing as soon as possible.
In her place, Radu knew he would have been a sobbing waste of a man. And he had seen her, the first time she had killed, how hollow and shaken she had been. He could see a hint of the same displacement in the way her eyes focused on nothing, but, as with Mehmed, no one who did not know her would realize how upset she was.
Radu knew her. He understood.