“It’s glorious,” Janelle said. “Is this the Hall of Arches?”
“No. The Fourier Hall.”
“Fourier?” She blinked. “Like the mathematician?”
The woman gave a sharp wave of her hand. “It has always been called this. That is all I know.”
Janelle didn’t push. Having lived as the child of a diplomat for so many years had taught her a great deal about dealing with cultures other than her own, and she could tell her interactions here were on shaky ground. She had discovered early on that if she wasn’t certain how her words would be received, it was often better to say nothing.
She couldn’t stop staring at the arches, though. What an exquisite challenge, to portray those graceful repeating patterns as a periodic function. Their Fourier transform would be a work of art. An unsteady urge to laugh hit her, followed by the desire to sit down and put her head in her hands. Such a strange thought, that she could capture in mathematics the essence of a dream palace that couldn’t exist.
The women’s slippered feet padded on the tiled floor, and Janelle’s tennis shoes squeaked. At the back of the hall, they passed under a huge arch built from gold-veined marble rather than the wood used in the Fourier Hall. A true corridor lay beyond, with stone walls tiled in star mosaics. Its size dwarfed their party, and other halls intersected it at oddly sharp angles. The pillars at corners where the halls met were carved to portray men with great broadswords or women in elegantly draped robes holding long-stemmed flowers. It spoke to the European influence here that the designs included human statues, which weren’t seen in Moorish architecture.
Janelle tried to keep track of their route through the maze of halls, but exhaustion dulled her mind. She was lost by the time they stopped at an oaken door. The guards stayed outside while the women took her into a small room. Plush rugs covered the floor, and mosaics with pink tulips and swirling green stems graced the lower half of the walls. Something odd about the stems tugged at her mind, but she was too tired to puzzle it out. In one corner, a white table supported a blue vase with real flowers. Blue velvet bedcovers lay in another corner, on a thicker pile of rugs, with pillows heaped there like a tumble of rose and jade clouds.
“It’s beautiful,” Janelle said. “Thank you.”
No one answered. They led her across the room and under an archway. In the chamber beyond, a small, sunken pool steamed, and a lamp glowed dimly in a seashell claw on the wall.
The older woman finally spoke. “We can help you bathe.”
Janelle’s face heated. “It’s kind of you to offer. But I can manage.”
“Then we will leave you to rest.” She was so aloof, she could have been a hundred miles away. The trio bowed and gracefully exited the chamber. A moment later, the outer door creaked on its hinges.
Janelle hoped she hadn’t just committed some social blunder. Unsure what she would find, she returned to the bedroom. An oil lamp hung on a scrolled hook by the entrance. It gave less light than the torches, which was probably why the women hadn’t carried it, but Janelle preferred the lamp, which neither smoked nor sputtered. To her relief, the door had a lock on this side and opened when she tried it. One of her guards stood a short distance down the hall, severe in his leather armor. Light from a wall sconce glinted on the hilt of the broadsword strapped across on his back.
“Hello,” Janelle said.
He turned with a start. Then he said what sounded like, “My greetings, Lady.”
“Isn’t that sword heavy?” she asked.
He seemed bemused by her attention. “Not for me.” “Oh. Good.” She wasn’t sure why she asked, but she felt the need to connect to people, to make this less strange. “Good night.”
His craggy face softened. “Good night.”
Janelle closed the door and sagged against the wall. She could think of many reasons Dominick might post a guard: to keep her in, as a courtesy, or because she wasn’t safe even in his home. For all its extraordinary beauty, his world had a starkness that kept her off balance.
Ill at ease, she explored her suite. In the bathing room, an elegantly carved bench stood against one wall, with a jade-green towel, a silver brush inlaid with mother-of-pearl from abalone, two soaps carved like tulips, and a crimson silk robe. It was all gorgeous, everything handmade. The suite, however, had only the one exit. They had closed her in well.
No one said you couldn’t leave,
she reminded herself. More than anything, she wanted to clean up. She carried the soaps to the pool, an oval filled with scented water, but then she hesitated. The idea of undressing made her feel vulnerable. The grimy scrapes on her arms and legs decided her; she quickly peeled off her clothes, shivering as the cold air chilled her bare skin. Then she slid into the heated pool.
Warmth seeped blissfully into her body as she lay back. Silence filled the room, a contrast to the muted city roar she had lived with these last years, at MIT. No sirens or engines interrupted the quiet, none of the constant hum that rumbled even in the deepest hours of an urban night. She was immersed in a great ocean of quietude.
Her thoughts drifted to Dominick’s gate. A branch cut? They came from complex numbers. She could write such a number as
z
= e
(iφ)
, where φ was called the phase angle. Varying the phase from φ = 0 to φ = 2 π was like going around an analog clock from 12 to 12. Just as 12 was the same at the start and finish, so 0 and 2π were the same. However, if she divided φ by 2, then
z
= e
(iφ/2)
. Now the phase was φ/2. As φ went from 0 to 2π the phase only changed to π. The angle φ had to go around a second time before φ/2 returned to its starting value of 2π. But the same φ couldn’t have two different values of
z
. To avoid that contradiction,
z
slipped through a branch cut to a second sheet for the second cycle φ. Just as 3 a.m. and 3 p.m. were different times, so φ on each sheet was considered different. Her world was one “clock” and Dominick’s was another.
That suggested some sort of phase here had to go through a full cycle before Dominick’s gate reopened. Her twelve-hour model was only an analogy; she had no idea how long she would have to wait before the actual gate reopened. Days? Months?
Years?
Nor was that her only problem. Suppose she divided φ by 3. The phase would be φ/3. It meant she would need three “clocks.” Three universes. Divide φ by 4, and she needed four. Many sheets could exist. If she went through a gate, she could end up on yet some other “clock”—some other universe—instead of her own.
Janelle groaned. Her head hurt, and the water had cooled. Putting away her thoughts, she soaped her body and washed her hair. Then she climbed out and dried off with the luxuriant towel. She reached for her wrinkled sundress, but then paused. The robe was far nicer and scented with perfume, certainly more pleasant than her gritty clothes. She slipped on the robe, and the sensuous glide of silk against her bare skin stirred her thoughts of Dominick. She tried to smile at her reflection in the pool. “Hey, Aulair, you look hot.” But her voice shook like the ripples flowing over the water.
She padded barefoot into the other room. She was so tired she could barely stand, but she felt too exposed to sleep. The bed consisted of no more than layers of rugs covered by velvet. She sat on it in the corner, with the wall at her back, facing the door as she drew pillows around her. It wasn’t until they crumpled in her grip that she realized how tightly she had clenched them.
Her eyelids drooped, and she forced them up. She wouldn’t sleep. The lamp swung on its hook, moving shadows on the walls, back and forth, back and forth . . .
The scrape of wood against stone roused Janelle. She lifted her head, disoriented. She had slid down and was lying amid the pillows. The lamp had burned low, leaving the room swathed in velvety shadows.
The scrape came again. She thought she said,
Who is it?
but no words came out.
The door swung inward, moving slowly. Dominick stood in the archway, filling it with his height and his presence. The dim light turned his shirt a darker blue and glinted on the hilt of his sheathed dagger. The way he loomed, his face harsh and starkly intense, evoked the specter of conquerors who swept across continents, laying waste to their enemies.
“Hello.” Janelle barely managed the word. Such a quiet greeting for so dramatic a man.
“May I come in?” he asked.
She appreciated that he asked, given that he could have done whatever he wanted. “Yes,” she said.
He entered, and the room seemed to shrink. He closed the door, then came over and knelt on the other side of the bed. His shirt was open at the neck, revealing a tuft of chest hair, black and curly.
“Have you slept?” he asked.
“A little.” She wondered how the rest of his chest looked.
He watched her watching him, and his lips curved upward. The shadows eased the hard edges of his face. Sitting on the bed, he tugged off one of his boots.
Janelle froze. Now he was taking off the other boot. He set it next to the first and started to undo his shirt.
“Wait.” Her cheeks flamed. If she hadn’t been so groggy, she would have realized sooner what she might be agreeing to when she invited him into her room.
Dominick paused. “No?”
“I can’t. I mean—that is—”
He waited. Then he asked, “Do you want me to leave?”
“I don’t want to be alone. But I don’t—” She stuttered to a halt, feeling like an idiot.
“It’s all right.” He slid across the rugs and stretched out on his side facing her, with his head propped up on one hand. He took up the entire length of the bed. She could see why he might like sleeping on the floor; his legs were too long for a mattress.
“My monks checked your hair,” he said. “You are Janelle Aulair.”
She flushed, unsettled to have him so near. “Well, I knew that.”
He trailed his finger along her hip, sliding up the robe, which suddenly seemed too short. “This is pretty.”
She put his hand back on the bedspread. Maybe she should ask him to leave. But she dreaded being alone. He continued to watch her, his head tilted to the side as if she were a puzzle.
“You must have more names than Dominick,” she said, flustered.
“Indeed I do. Dominick-Michael Alexander Constantine.”
Now
that
was a moniker. “Those names are famous in my universe.” She was talking too fast again. “Like Alexander the Great.”
“The Great.” His gaze turned sleepy, as if he were a satisfied cat. “Tell me more.”
“He conquered Persia—” She stopped as he tugged the sash of her robe. His knuckles brushed her inner thigh.
“Don’t,” Janelle said.
He traced his finger along her cheek. “Do I offend you so much?”
“Sweet heaven, no.”
“Good.” His voice was like whiskey, dark and potent. “Otherwise, this would be a rather uneventful wedding night.”
Whoa. “You have the wedding night before the wedding?”
“If the bride and groom agree, yes.”
“What if they don’t agree?”
“I thought you did.”
There was that. “If you stay tonight, are we, uh, married?” He watched her face. “If agreement is reached, and the bride receives rings from the groom, then yes. But public ceremonies are traditional and expected, especially for the royal family.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “Does that happen tomorrow?”
“In the morning. Is that all right?”
After a moment, she said, “Yes. It’s just so strange.”
“For me, also.” He stroked his knuckles along her thigh. “But not unwelcome.”
“Dominick . . .”
He rubbed the hem of her robe between his thumb and finger. “This cloth is beautiful on you.” Putting his finger under her chin, he tilted up her face. He kissed her deeply, and she tensed, wanting him both to stop and to keep going. Her only experience with seduction was on the level of sending out for pizza and Cokes; she was so far out of her depth here, she was drowning.
When she didn’t protest, he pulled her closer and eased the robe off her shoulders. When he slid his palm over her breast, his calluses scraped her nipple, and she tingled in places he wasn’t touching her. Then he drew back, his face unexpectedly tender.
“Women are so small,” he said. “Look at this.” He put the heel of his hand at the bottom of her rib cage. His palm stretched up her torso and his fingers closed around her breast. “I can hold so much of you, but you couldn’t even cover my ribs.”
His ribs. Clever, sexy man. Of course she looked at his chest where he had unfastened his shirt. A mat of hair curled over his muscles. She laid her palm against his abdomen, feeling the springy hair, the hard muscles. Very nice. But very intimidating, too.
“You smell like flowers,” he said. Laying her on her back, he stretched out on top of her, easing his hips between her thighs. Then he reached for the waistband of his trousers.
“Wait!” Janelle said. He didn’t seem to have any speed between
pause
and
fast forward
.
He lifted his head, his eyes glossy with arousal. “Wait?”
“No more.” She felt like a fool, but she had just discovered she couldn’t go this far with someone she barely knew, even if he would be her husband tomorrow.
He brushed his lips across hers. “I won’t hurt you.” “Dominick, I—no. No more.”
Frustration crept into his voice. “You tease me.”
“I don’t mean to. I just—I can’t.”
He lifted his head to look at her. “First your behavior says yes. Then no. Then yes. Then no. Which is it?”
“I’m not ready.”
He lay there, propped up on his hands, and she knew they both realized the truth. He could do whatever he wanted and she couldn’t stop him. She lay still, meeting his gaze.
Dominick groaned and rolled off her, onto his back. Then he threw his arm over his eyes and inhaled deeply. He stayed there, silent and still, except for the rise and fall of his chest.