Suddenly a warm palm grazes the bare skin of my back, the open space between the panels of my dress. It’s the lightest touch, gone in a blink, but I can still feel the vibrating heat of it. I turn, and there he is—the Ash King. But he’s walking past me, arm in arm with one of the Favored, telling her the stories behind the engravings. It’s Morani on his arm—the spiky-haired girl with the olive complexion, the one I healed of venereal disease. She laughs and squeezes his bicep as they walk, an intimate gesture that makes my stomach twist.
