Page 14 of The Immortal's Trick
Lome doesn’t press further, content to let the silence wrap around me while he resumes conversation with Nebet. They talk of Alexandria—the theater district, the street vendors, the imported spices along the harbors. They leave me to my silence, and I’m grateful for the space to think… even if thinking doesn’t help.
When we arrive, Lome pulls the cart to the side of the street with a smooth tug of the reins. A young servant boy rushes forward, eager to help. Lome tosses the reins to him with practiced ease before leaping down from the front bench.
I don’t expect him to appear so quickly at my side, but there he is—hand outstretched, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “May I?”
His eyes glint with something playful. He’s noticed I’ve kept my distance. Part of me is glad. Let him know I am not easily swayed by his charms.
But the other part… the part that revels in the pull to this handsome man… is drawn to that teasing expression, to the quiet confidence behind it.
I drop my gaze and press my palm into his.
The moment our skin touches, heat jolts up my arm like lightning. My breath catches.
I start to pull away, but his grip tightens, steadying me. His eyes meet mine, calm, unreadable. If he felt the spark, he hides it well.
I force myself to breathe, stand, and descend with as much dignity as my shaking legs allow. Once I’m on the ground, he releases me without a word and moves to help Nebet.
I rub my arm. The sensation lingers—like his touch left something behind permanently. I try to shake it off as I scan the crowds approaching the massive stone building.
Men and women from every class—merchants in embroidered cloaks, noblemen with shining sandals, women in dresses that whisper with every step. Egyptian and Greek, side by side, drawn here by the promise of a story.
“Shall we?” Lome gestures toward the theater.
Nebet asks, “Should we wait for your brother?”
“He’ll meet us inside.” He offers his elbow to her. “Come. Let us find our seats.”
Nebet takes his arm without hesitation, radiant beside him. I follow, reminding myself that she is the eldest daughter. It’s etiquette for him to escort her over me.
Still, something twists in my chest, something Irefuseto name.
Inside, the theater opens like a great stone mouth—pillars rise, corridors wind, and then the stage reveals itself in full. It’s vast and beautiful. Half-circle seating rises around a central orchestra pit. Light filters through carved openings above from dozens of flickering lanterns, casting long beams across the polished stone steps.
I brace myself for the steep walk to the general section, but Lome stops halfway down.
My lips part.
We are sitting in the prohedria?
These seats are for the elite—the city’s wealthy. Honored guests. My pulse kicks up. WhoisLome?
He catches my look and tilts his head. “Is everything all right?”
I nod once. My throat’s too dry for words.
He gestures for Nebet to pass and sit to his left. There are two seats on his right—mine and, presumably, his brother’s.
I hesitate again. I don’t like sitting apart from my sister. I glance at her, silently willing her to protest and ask Lome to switch. But she’s too dazzled by the view and elegance of everything around her to meet my gaze.
Resigned, I slide onto the seat, leaving a space between me and Lome. I smooth my dress, trying to hide how nervous I am.
The seats fill quickly. I keep my gaze on the stage, watching the workers shift props. The air is thick with anticipation, murmurs of excitement weaving around us like fabric.
“Lome,” a voice says behind me. It’s deep and smooth. When I turn, I nearly forget how to breathe.
This man is just as striking as Lome, but in a different way—deep green eyes, a more closed-off expression. It’s the man from the market. His brother.
“Des.” Lome stands. “Allow me to introduce Nebet and Eshe Akil.”
