He put his hands on her waist, as he had done so many times last summer, pulling her under, pushing her, playing. But this time he left his hands there. They were warm through the thin material of her underclothes. His voice was husky, lower than it had been. “I missed you, too.”
He pulled her closer, and Lada warred within herself. Her inclination was to push him away, to cut him with a clever, sharp remark, to find something, anything to do with her hands, her worthless hands that floated uselessly at her sides.
Huma’s words echoed in her head. Set him free. Did she truly hold him that way?
Did she want to?
As though heeding her desperation but heedless of the confusion and fear ringing through her like the clash of blades, her hands lifted and grabbed the back of Mehmed’s head, tangling in his wet hair. And then her lips, from which nothing but poison had ever dropped, found his and were baptized with sweet fire, reborn into something new and wild. His mouth answered hers, lips parting, his teeth catching hers, her tongue meeting his.
It felt like fighting.
It felt like falling.
It felt like dying.
“Mehmed?” Radu called, his voice muffled and indistinct, as if Lada’s head were still underwater. She and Mehmed paused their mouth-to-mouth combat, and Lada realized her legs were wrapped around his waist, his hands around the backs of her thighs, their chests pressed together.
She pushed him away, dropping beneath the water and swimming to the other side just as Radu appeared from the trees and jumped into the pool between them. He burst up, water raining from his hair, droplets of sunshine glittering in it. His laughter matched, ringing with joy. Mehmed’s laughter was not quite so genuine. His gaze burned into Lada’s. His eyebrows formed a question or a promise—she could not tell which.
“Mehmed is back!” Radu shouted.
“I think she noticed,” Mehmed said.
“Lada.” Radu swam over and pushed her shoulder playfully. “The pool is not that cold. Why are you trembling?”
Lada tore her eyes away from Mehmed’s. “No reason.”
RADU LAUGHED, BREATHLESS, AND dropped his wooden practice sword. “I am finished.”
Lazar’s lazy smile belied the perspiration beading on his forehead and upper lip. “You have gotten quite good.” He adjusted his long white cap, a few strands of dark hair peeking out.
Lazar was one of the happiest parts of Radu’s life, second only to getting Mehmed back the month before. Although at Mehmed’s suggestion Radu had been training with the Janissaries for a couple of years now, having a familiar face among them made it enjoyable rather than a chore. Lazar always volunteered when Radu visited the barracks looking for a training partner. Quick with a sword and quicker with a laugh, Lazar was the same bright spot he had been in Tirgoviste. Their ten-year age gap seemed so much smaller than it had when Radu was a boy.
Lazar set his sword next to Radu’s. “Very soon you may even best your sister.”
Radu leaned against the wall, shaking his head. “Do not let her hear you say that, or she will spend even more time training than she already does. I never see her as it is.”
Lazar raised a black eyebrow. “And that is a bad thing?”
“She is my family.”
“Yes, you poor thing.”
Radu laughed, reaching for a bucket of water. He scooped some into his mouth, then put a wet hand to the back of his neck. Lazar leaned over, shoulder brushing Radu’s, and took the bucket. He pulled off his cap and upended the whole thing over his head.
Radu jumped away, but his side still got soaked. “Wasteful cur!”
Lazar’s smile turned his face from boyish to wicked. He held the bucket behind his back. “Come and get it, then.”
There was something in his voice that gave Radu pause, made a strange buzzing void come between his heart and his ribs. But then he heard his name being called. He turned to find Mehmed at the far wall of the small practice enclosure.
“Mehmed!” Radu called, beaming. It still delighted him to see Mehmed after such a long absence. His face was always surprising, like a question Radu had yet to find the answer to.
Mehmed gestured animatedly, his hands too excited to be still. “Tonight at supper we host a dervish, who has traveled here by way of India. Wait until you see his feet! And his face—he is truly a holy man. Get cleaned up and come to my rooms.”
Radu nodded, Mehmed’s excitement contagious. Ever since Molla Gurani’s death the previous year, Mehmed sought more and more outliers in the faith: dervishes who took vows of poverty and wandered the earth, scholars who studied to better understand the words of the Prophet, even teachers deemed heretical. He was never content with a simple, unquestioning practice of Islam. It was one of the things Radu loved about him. Studying and learning at his side had always been an adventure.