Chapter 6

Merit had drifted off on the low stool, her cheek resting against the edge of the bed. She’d been keeping vigil for two days, barely leaving the room. Her slow breathing rose and fell with Nakht’s, muffled under the tight bandages wrapped across his chest.

A rustle of linen. A priestess entered, carrying a tray of fresh oils and clean strips of cloth. She moved with the quiet grace of an Isis attendant; her fingers, as they undid the stained wrappings, made no sound. She washed, anointed, and retied the bindings with a care that felt like a prayer.

“Great Wife,” she murmured without looking up, “go rest a while in the sun. A novice will stay at his side and chant the hymns.”

Merit flinched. The thought of leaving the room squeezed her heart.

“She’ll watch over him,” the priestess added. “The gods watch as well.”

Merit gave a small, stiff nod. She bent, letting her eyes graze the pale face of her brother, then straightened as though yanking out a needle buried too deep. Her numb legs carried her toward the terraces.

The morning air struck her—less freshness than a weight pressing on her chest. Her hand went to her belly. A hard knot had formed there, rising into her throat. Her fingers trembled. And then, against her will, the images came.

Nakht. His breath thick with wine. His body heavy over hers. His hands everywhere, grabbing, holding, forcing. She still felt the burn of his fingers on her wrist, the shame of her robe undone. Her skin bristled as if it were all happening again, here in the daylight.

A spasm twisted her gut. She doubled over, almost retched. A bitter taste flooded her mouth. She pressed an arm against her ribs, knees buckling.

She tried to tell herself: He was drunk. It wasn’t him. It was the wine. But her own inner voice sneered, dry and sharp. No. Not just the wine. The words. Above all, the words.

They came back like hammer blows. She still heard them, clear and distinct, in that cursed bed. Her brother. Her little brother. The boy she’d grown up with, shared games, lessons, nights of fear after their parents’ murder. He had stopped seeing her as a sister. But for how long had he looked at her differently? As a woman. As a body to want.

A surge of nausea rose. Shame flooded her down to her fingertips. How had she not seen it? Was he still the brother she thought she knew—or a stranger she dared not approach?

The dry wind stirred the palms below. Merit inhaled, but the air felt heavy as mud. Her temples pounded, her belly stayed clenched. She gripped the stone railing as if she might fall.

And other memories crowded in, darker still. Footsteps behind her that night as she fled. A hand tearing away her veil, deep voices, men’s laughter she didn’t know. Coarse rope biting into her wrists, her shoulders aflame from the useless struggle. Darkness, the stench, the taste of dust in her dry mouth. She had thought she would die—like their parents, cut down in a street. She had waited for the final blow, or worse.

She wrapped both arms around her belly. Nausea rose, but nothing came. Her body shook, wracked by tremors she couldn’t stop.

And yet ... in that darkness, when her captors struck her to shut her up, when her breath came ragged, one face filled her mind: Nakht. It was him she called to silently, him she begged to come. Him—the man who had made her scream with shame and fear two nights before. Him, her brother and her tormentor.

The thought made her sway. She wanted to spit at herself, slap her own face. Why him? Why had her hope clung to him, even after his hands had defiled her?

A bird cut across the sky, its sharp cry splitting the air. Merit lifted her eyes, dazzled by the sun’s disc. Her eyelids burned, tears spilling before she could stop them.

“It was him...” she breathed, not hearing herself. “My brother. His hands. His words...”

She shut her eyes, clenched her teeth. Her belly still pulled at her like a stone tied on. She stayed there a long time, trembling, before turning away from the terrace’s edge and walking back into the corridors.