Talk

The silver comb gleamed in the lamplight, its teeth catching the glow like a row of polished needles. Pisto warmed the oil between his palms—jasmine, expensive, smuggled in from the southern markets at triple the price. The scent clung to his skin long after, a ghost of something sweet he could never quite wash away.

The water steamed in its porcelain bowl. He tested it with his wrist, the way one might for a child's bath. Too hot, and it would scald. Too cold, and the ritual meant nothing.

She did not look up when he entered.

Nargis sat at her dressing table, her back to him, the bones of her spine pressing against the thin silk of her night robe. The mirror before her was turned face-down—had been for weeks. Pisto had stopped righting it.

He set the bowl beside her, the water sloshing gently. The scent of jasmine unfurled in the steam.

"How are you?" he asked.

Silence.

The comb slid through her hair without resistance. Black as temple ink, heavy as a mourning veil. He worked in slow, even strokes, his fingers careful not to catch, not to pull. When a strand came loose, he coiled it around his finger before letting it fall.

She spoke suddenly, her voice flat. "Answer honestly tonight."

Pisto's hands stilled. "I will try."

"Did my mother call for me?"

The comb resumed its path. "No."

A pause. Then, quieter: "Rightfully so."

His jaw tightened. *No one summons the priestess.*

The door opened without warning.

Pisto did not startle—years of service had trained that out of him—but Nargis straightened, her shoulders squaring beneath the silk. The High Priest filled the doorway, his shadow stretching long across the floor.

"Daughter." His gaze flicked to Pisto, then away, as if the eunuch were no more notable than the furniture. "How are you?"

Nargis tilted her head, just slightly. "As well as God allows."

Pisto's fingers tightened around the comb. The answer was perfect. Polite. Empty. The same one she gave the supplicants who came weeping to her altar.

The High Priest nodded, satisfied, and left as abruptly as he'd come. The door clicked shut behind him.

The room exhaled.

Nargis slumped forward, her hair slipping through Pisto's fingers like water. He said nothing. Just lifted the comb again, dragging it through the dark strands with more force than necessary.

She let him.

Somewhere beneath them, the temple bells began to toll. **The Priest's Decree**

The brush slipped from Pisto's fingers before he realized the priest had taken it.

"Leave us."

The command hung in the air, sharp as the scent of jasmine still clinging to Pisto's skin. He hesitated, his gaze darting to Nargis.

A single nod. That was all she gave him.

Pisto bowed, slow enough that the priest might mistake it for deference rather than reluctance. The door closed behind him with a soft click, but he did not walk away. Not yet.

Inside, the priest's voice was honeyed steel. "You're feeling better."

A statement, not a question.

Nargis did not turn from the mirror. "Yes."

"The Magister of Trade came today. With the Duke's cousin." The brush moved through her hair now with the same rhythmic precision Pisto had used, though the strokes were harder, less careful. "They asked for your blessing."

"And?"

"I turned them away." The priest set the brush down with a deliberate click. "Given your... condition."

Nargis laughed, a sound like dry leaves scraping stone. "They kneel at my feet," she mused, "begging for my intercession. As if God would listen to them any more than I do." A pause. "Funny, isn't it? How quickly they'd recoil if they knew their holy priestess was just as broken as the rest of them."

"Ab uno disce omnes, we can't allow them to learn any affliction."

Nargis watched a droplet of water slide down the side of the bowl. "You sound almost jealous."

"Protective." His hand cupped her chin, tilting her face toward the light. The faint, jagged lines stood out starkly against her skin. "These are getting worse."

She didn't pull away. "A temporary affliction."

"A curse," he corrected softly. His thumb traced one of the marks. "One we will lift. But until then—"

"You'll hide me away."

"For your own good."

Nargis laughed, low and bitter. "How fortunate that my good aligns so neatly with yours."

The comb clattered onto the dressing table.

"You'll stay in these rooms," he said, his voice light, almost conversational. "No audiences. No processions. Pisto can tend to you, but no one else enters."

Her fingers curled around the edge of the stool. "And if I refuse?"

His smile was a knife wrapped in silk. "Then I suppose we'll find out how quickly Venician lace burns."

The door closed behind him with a whisper.

Nargis sat motionless, her reflection staring back at her—a girl in a gilded cage, her hair still half-braided, the scent of jasmine slowly fading from the air.

Outside, Pisto waited. And once the Priest came out to leave, he stood by the doorframe.

Pisto waited exactly seven breaths—counted in the hitching rhythm of Nargis' shoulders—before slipping back inside. The water in the bowl had gone tepid, its surface filmed with congealing oil. He moved soundlessly, gathering the discarded comb, the stained cloth, the half-empty vial of jasmine essence gone cloudy at the edges.

Nargis hadn't moved.

She sat before the overturned mirror, her spine rigid, her fingers curled around the edge of the dressing table hard enough to blanch the knuckles. The lamplight caught the fresh scratches along her jaw—thin, angry lines where her father's rings had pressed too deep.

Pisto said nothing. He never did.

The bowl trembled slightly in his hands as he turned to leave.

"Watch him."

Her voice stopped him mid-step. Not the priestess' commanding tone, but something lower. Rougher.

Pisto turned.

Nargis finally lifted her head. In the flickering light, her eyes were black pits. "My father cages me because he fears what I'll see." A muscle jumped in her jaw. "Find out why."

The bowl's rim bit into Pisto's palms. He bowed, deeper than necessary, letting the motion hide the way his mouth twisted.

When he straightened, his face was smooth as always. But his pulse roared in his ears—a traitorous drumbeat she would surely hear.

The door closed behind him with a whisper.

In the hall, Pisto exhaled through his nose. The water sloshed gently as he walked, its surface rippling like a disturbed pond.

Somewhere in the temple, the High Priest was plotting.

And Pisto?

He would drown in his service before he failed her.

But the plans had been made and he was unable to hear of it.