Page 2 of Prima
He is wary of looking at her again—his abrupt, needless reaction still reverberates—but he must study her as both a potential adversary and a potential ally.
She continues to fuss with the draping of the sarong. Her black hair, falling in a cascade, obscures her lowered face. She hasnotbothered to make her hair matted and clumped, like that of an actual shipwrecked person. No, it is clean and smooth.
After one last shake of the edges of the sarong, the woman tucks her hair behind one ear and looks up.
Doe eyes, pillowy lips, a faint flush of pink upon her cheeks—he hasn’t even computed whether she’s beautiful, conventionally or otherwise, before the inside of his head erupts like an entire city descending into a rock-throwing, shop-sacking riot.
He can’t move; he can’t do anything but stare mutely as the stranger on the raft rises to her feet, her eyes never leaving his. He doesn’t like to draw notice and has always been alarmed by prolonged attention from any quarter. But her regard does not cause dismay; it merely makes him feel like a submarine caught between too many depth charges.
And somehow he can’t seem to care that he has entered currents that can crush him like a tin can.
They do not speak but continue to observe each other, her gaze extraordinarily solemn.
Abruptly she turns her head so that her hair once again obscures her features. Does he hear droplets falling onto her raft? He does, but surely that must be seawater trickling down from the ends of her hair and not?—
She flings back her hair, sets one foot slightly behind the other, bends a little at the knee, and leaps the four meters that separate her raft and the stern of his boat, landing with barely a sound on the deck.
She straightens. They stand nearly nose-to-nose—he’s tall for a man and she’s almost the same height.
Again, an uproar in his head.
Her eyelashes are wet, tiny glistens of moisture that glue individual lashes into long spikes. She lifts her hand, as if she is about to touch him.
And sheisbeautiful, the haloed, otherworldly beauty of dreams made real and miracles coming to pass.
Her hand, reaching toward him, is narrow-boned, the nails clean and trim. It is not delicate—it has been rope-burned, nicked, and chapped. But it has also been assiduously cared for; most of the marks have faded, and her skin appears soft and fine-grained.
Without realizing it, his own hand comes up.
She takes a step back; her hand drops to her side. “Good evening. I believe I have the pleasure of meeting the nineteenth prince?”
The chaos in his head is ongoing—a melee in every street. But at her distance and formality, something cracks—the strange spell she cast on him, a sweet, profound melancholy that wrapped him up as if deep in a dream.
His hand, still in midair, lowers. He, too, takes a step back, drenched in cold reality: She can conduct herself however she chooses, but for him, the supplicant, there is very little room for error.
“I am Nineteen.” His name does not matter here, only his lineage and rank. “And I have the great fortune of receiving the…”
“Minister plenipotentiary appointed by the Secretariat. Sun is my family name.”
She smiles, revealing round, perfectly symmetrical dimples. Despite his wariness, his heart quakes—enchantment or not, she is breathtaking.
Yet somehow, beauty is not her most striking quality. There is an assurance to her that seems to have nothing to do with the pedigree of her menfolk: She is accustomed to wielding power in her own right. She wears that power lightly, but she wears it without apology or hesitation.
His brother Five has access to newspapers from New Ryukyu and Ren has seen the seven-member Secretariat photographed in the thin broadsheets. Those images conveyed the basic structure of her face but captured nothing of her aura.
Not only an envoy, but someone who, until recently, set course for the entire nation of New Ryukyu? What is going on?
He inclines his head. “May I offer you some refreshments, Lady Sun?”
He expected to be taken up to a larger New Ryukyu vessel but brought along some snacks to serve in the unlikely event that he would have to host anyone in his glorified dinghy.
“Or perhaps you would prefer a wash first, since you were out in the elements?”
She laughs, a delighted sound. Did he dream that moment a minute ago when he thought she’d shed tears? The woman in front of him is full of irrepressible verve.
“Iwasout in the elements, wasn’t I?” she asks gleefully.
Conspiratorially? Is her question a wink at him?
