“The dance of Fahradan,” I begin, “is a dance of paradoxes. It is restraint versus passion. It is desire versus purity. It is push versus pull.”
I lift my arms, which are bare of jewelry. “This dance is born in the wrists. They are the points upon which the rest of the body hangs.”
Demonstrating, I begin rotating my hands, shifting foot to foot, my hips swaying to unheard music. My gown whispers against the tile, my bare feet lifting only at the heel.
“It is one of the few dances shared by a man and a woman,” I go on. “Step closer.”
He does, swallowing, and he holds up his wrists at shoulder height. Without pausing, I step to him and press the inside of my left wrist lightly against his right.
“Nothing touches,” I whisper in his ear, “except the wrists.”
I can feel his pulse beating through the delicate skin of his wrist, warm and strong and vibrant. The power of his energy pours through me like a rush of wind.
“When you dance with the princess, you must resist her and at the same time let her entice you. You are stone, and she is water. You are the earth, and she is the sky.” With a swift spin, I reverse directions, locking my other wrist to his. “See? Push and pull. Restraint and passion.”
He nods and licks his lips, his eyes locked with mine.
“Now,” I say, “when I step forward, you step back. When I turn to the left, you go right. We are mirrors of one another, do you see? But always we come back, wrist to wrist. Imagine an invisible ribbon tying us together, always bringing us back to where we began. This dance, like time, is a circle.”
He begins to dance with me, mirroring my movements, until we are circling one another, turning, twirling, and always returning to the starting position, opposite wrists pressed together, vein to vein, pulse to pulse.
“The woman leads, and the man resists. The woman invites, and the man follows. Your part is easy—let Caspida lead. Mirror her movements, and you will fall into synthesis. Your bodies will read each other’s heartbeats through the wrists, and your pulses will become one rhythm.”
“I think I understand,” he says hoarsely.
“Then prove it.”
I twirl away, then back to him, staying on my toes, my hips always lightly rotating. He reacts clumsily at first, but soon the awkwardness fades away and he begins matching my movements, reflecting them in reverse. We dance like this, wrist to wrist, twirl and turn, step for step, for several more minutes. He holds my gaze, our eyes connecting at every turn, anticipating one another’s movements.
His pulse is so strong against my wrist that it echoes through me, almost like a heartbeat of my own. My skin warms; my breath catches in my throat. I know how closely I dance along the line of destruction, but I cannot pull myself away. He is intoxicating, his force of life an addiction I cannot refuse. I have not felt this alive in centuries, not since you, Habiba, when you taught me the dance of Fahradan. Ours was a dance of giddy laughter, a dance of friends, sisters, a dance of life and youth and hope.
But this dance is different.
It is not I but he who entices, reversing the ancient roles of the dance. And I resist because I must, because if I don’t, because if I give in to the all-too-human desires racing through me—then it is Aladdin who will pay the terrible price.
“Stop.” I drop my wrists and step away, and he does the same, still caught up in mirroring me. Except that he is breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with exertion, his eyes filled with a strange, wondrous, curious look as he stares at me. He moves closer, his eyes fixed on mine, and despite myself I cannot look away.
Aladdin raises a tentative hand to my cheek. Immobile with both dread and longing, I can only stare up at him, flushing with warmth when he gently runs his hand down the side of my face. I shut my eyes, leaning into his touch just slightly, my stomach leaping. Longing. Wishing.
I feel him leaning closer, bending down, his face drawing nearer to mine.
“No,” I whisper. “I can’t.”
“Zahra—”
I pull away, averting my gaze. “You are ready for her.”
With that, I turn and run back into the palace.
Chapter Fifteen
IT IS A CUSTOM of Fahradan that for the evening, the lines between the classes are temporarily erased, and a servant may dance with a prince, and a cook may break bread with a king. And so when Aladdin enters the great throne room of King Malek, I am standing at his side, equal for this night. I wear my conjured gown of red and gold silk, a ruby perched on my brow.
I still feel Aladdin’s touch burning on my cheek, the weight of him leaning toward me. My skin courses with rippling heat, and never have I felt so out of control of my own form. I cannot shift away the tingles in my stomach or the image of his eyes locking on mine as we spun around one another.