“Perhaps.”
Dago strode to the bench, but instead of taking a seat at the opposite end, he sat near her, sidelong, with his arm on the backrest. The white towel he’d wrapped around himself was too long for the word “suggestive” to describe this casual pose, but Hera still felt strange. Dago always approached her with brazen confidence, but he never tried to influence her with his physicality. Had years of indulging his desires made him unable to resist his seducer instinct, even in the case of his rival? If so, then Master Homer was right to worry that Dago would one day become a nightmare, as well as to ask Hera for help. Nightmaring occurred gradually. If Hera got closer to the man, it would be easier for her to monitor the possible progress of his personality’s deformation.
I can do it, she told herself again.
“So you think you’re cursed,” Dago said, focusing on her the calculating gaze of his silver eyes. “Do you have any suspicions about the perpetrator?”
“I think it was an ifrit. An imp wouldn’t be able to rebuild the spellbarriers surrounding my house, which seemed intact.”
“Why do you assume it’s the work of a morpheus and not a magus with nightmarish tendencies?”
Hera looked at him suspiciously. “Didyoudo this?”
Dago made a disapprovingtsk. “Do you really think that if I knew a spell that can turn sugar into gold, I would share it?”
“No,” she admitted. “For the same reason, I don’t think a magus did it either. It’s not profitable, so it’s senseless.”
“Maybe it’s senseless only on the surface.” Dago’s gaze slid down to her hands, which were resting on her thighs. Looking at them thoughtfully, he said, “What does this curse prevent you from doing?”
“I can’t touch sugar or gold without changing their properties?”
“But the curse doesn’t work when you wear gloves, does it?” When Hera nodded, he added, “So it doesn’t have amajornegative impact on your life?”
Hera fell silent, realizing where his thoughts were heading. If the effect of the curse wasn’t devastatingly negative, maybe it had some positive aspects.
She looked down at her hands. Thoughts about these positive aspects led her to the conversation she’d had with Master Homer a few days ago. It couldn’t be his curse, could it?
Her imagination prompted an image of the man—who she’d always thought wore ridiculously large glasses to divert attention from his diabolically unfunny appearance.
Could it?
“I think it’s a plot,” Dago said suddenly.
Hera looked up, surprised. The sight of his slitted pupils, which had been round a moment ago, took her breath away. When he uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her, she was unable to move.
“Such a good dream like you wouldn’t dare to use enchanted gold,” he said, lowering his voice. “Only someone like me, who knows the legal loopholes and has no qualms about taking advantage of them, sees any benefit in this spell. So it begs the question: is it possible that someone is using you?”
He was now so close that he could touch her, but instead of unease, she felt fascination. Was his face always so beautiful?
“Are you a pawn…”
He lowered his voice even more. Its sound seemed to touch not only her ears, but farther. Deeper.
“…or are you trying to set me up yourself?”
IV Hera
Hera’s heartbeat accelerated. Her surroundings seemed to blur, and she felt like she would soon melt with pleasure. Despite the cool eyes of the man next to her, the look of concentration in them made her body temperature increase, and though she was only wearing a loose dress, she was growing uncomfortable. His voice… A pleasant tingle spread across her body. His voice was like a wave, gently washing her skin in a stimulating caress.
She felt like she could do anything to keep the man talking.
“Tell me the truth,” Dago encouraged. “Why are you here?”
“I think it’s a test,” she said. She couldn’t—shedidn’twant to tear her gaze away from his face. “Master Homer says that one of us must become the Archmagus. I don’t want it, but I would have to do it if you nightmared. I don’t want you to nightmare. I want to devote myself to healing and research.”
The man frowned slightly. His gaze fell to her lips and stayed there. Then he blinked, as if he was waking from a dream. He met her eyes again. “You don’t want to be the Archmagus?”
He edged away, but she felt he was still giving her all his attention. When she nodded, he asked, “Then what kind of test are you talking about? If you refuse, then I’m the only candidate, aren’t I?”