“Alizeh,” he said angrily, “is nearly blue with frost. Her gown is made of tissue. She is frozen enough in the general course of things without this added—” Cyrus stopped, then turned to look at her. In his haste to exit the abhorrent conversation he’d been thoughtless; Alizeh was visibly struggling, her arms tight across her chest, fighting over and over an impulse to tremble as she moved. Kamran, he noticed, was hovering nearby looking chagrined, leaving Cyrus to wonder whether his offers of aid had been rejected. This mattered little. He went to her in a few strides, removed his coat
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