Rao began to speak again.
“Be quiet.” Again, Rao’s mouth snapped shut.
“I will hear no argument, Rao. I will listen to no words which speak of age, or blood and purity, or propriety and custom. I have made my decision, and I will not be swayed.”
Imperial hauteur seemed to crack. Perhaps. Just a bit. Shakuntala looked away.
“I will not force you into this, Rao. You have only to say—no. Refuse me if you wish, and I will bow to that refusal. But I will hear no argument.”
“If I wish?” he cried. Shakuntala’s gaze came back to him, racing like the wind. In that instant, she knew the truth.
There was no hint of moisture in her eyes, now. The tears flowed like rain. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. Her shoulders began to shake.
“I never knew,” she whispered. Then, sobbing: “Oh, Rao—I never knew. All those years—”
Rao’s own voice was choked, his own eyes wet. “How could I—?” His legs buckled. On the floor, kneeling, head down: “How could I? I only—only—”
She was kneeling in front of him. Cradling him in her arms, whispering his name, kissing his eyes, weeping softly into his hair.
* * *
Eventually, humor returned, bringing its own long-shared treasure.
“You must be off,” murmured Rao. “This is most unseemly, for a virgin to be alone with a man for so long.”
Shakuntala gurgled laughter. “I’m serious!” insisted Rao. “People will say I married a slut. My reputation will be ruined.”
She threw her arms around his neck, kissing him fiercely, sprawling them both to the floor.
“Gods above,” gasped Rao. “I am marrying a slut!”
Shakuntala gurgled and gurgled. “Oh, Rao—I’ve missed you so much. No one ever made me laugh so!”
She kissed him again, and again, and again, before pulling her face away. Her liquid eyes were full of promise.
“We will be wed tomorrow,” she decreed. “You will dance the greatest dance anyone ever saw.”
He smiled ruefully. “I will not argue the point. I don’t dare.”
“You’d better not,” she hissed. “I’m the empress. Can’t even keep track, any longer, of my executioners. But there must be hundreds of the handy fellows.”
Rao laughed, and hugged her tight. “No one ever made me laugh so,” he whispered.
Seconds later, they were on their feet. Holding hands, they began moving toward the door beyond which Kungas and an empire’s fortune lay waiting.
At the door, Rao paused. A strange look came upon him. Shakuntala had never seen that expression on Rao’s face before. Hesitation, uncertainty, embarrassment, anxiety—for all the world, he seemed younger than she.
Shakuntala understood at once. “You are worried,” she said, gently but firmly, “about our wedding night. All those years of self-discipline.”
He nodded, mute. After a moment, softly: “I never—I never—”
“Never?” she asked archly. Cocking her head, squinting: “Even that time—I was fourteen, I remember—when I—”
“Enough!” he barked. Then, flushing a bit, Rao shrugged. “Almost,” he muttered. “I tried—so hard. I fasted and meditated. But—perhaps not always. Perhaps.”
He was still hesitant, uncertain, anxious. Shakuntala took his head between her hands and forced him to look at her squarely.
“Do not concern yourself, Rao. Tomorrow night you will be my husband, and you will perform your duty to perfection. Trust me.”
He stared at her, as a disciple stares at a prophet.
“Trust me.” Her voice was as liquid as her eyes. “I will see to it.”
* * *
“I thought I might try this one,” said Shakuntala, pointing to the illustration.
Irene’s eyes widened. Almost bulged, in truth. “Are you mad? I wouldn’t—”
She broke off, chuckling. “Of course, you’re a dancer and an acrobat, trained by an assassin. I’m a broken-down old woman. Greek nobility, at that. I creak just rising from my reading chair.”
Shakuntala smiled. “Not so old as all that, Irene. And not, I think, broken down at all.”
Irene made a face. “Maybe so. But I’d still never try that one.”
A moment later, Shakuntala was embracing her. “Thank you for loaning me the book, Irene. I’m sorry I took so long to return it. But I wanted to know it by heart.”