"No," she said, stifling a giggle. "I just like to hear you say it: you want more."
He touched her face tenderly. "Never doubt it." At the back of his compelling eyes was an ancient pain, one that took her unaware.
"Have I upset you?" She moved closer to him, seeking consolation as much as wanting to bestow it. "I did not mean to."
"It is not you, Tulsi; it is something from long before I knew you," he said, remembering Nicoris, and how she died the True Death.
"It is another woman," said Tulsi with an irritated tinge to her words. "It
is
, Sanat Ji Mani. Do not lie to me."
"No; I will not lie." He fingered the opening of her silken robe. "I was recalling another woman, yes, but not in comparison." It was far more complicated than that, but he did not know how to explain it without causing Tulsi distress.
"I cannot believe that. Why else would you think of her now?" She pushed herself up so that she was half-sitting beside him, both hands joined and holding her raised knee.
"I would think of her because she, too, did not want to believe my love." He said it simply, making no excuses, offering no larger explanation.
"Was she like me?" Tulsi demanded.
"No: no one is like you, or like her," said Sanat Ji Mani, his eyes on hers until she looked away. "Tulsi?"
Tulsi considered this for several moments, her expression distant. Then she looked down at him. "I have a favor to ask of you, Sanat Ji Mani."
"I will do it if I am able. What is it?" The steady assurance in his response gave her the courage to go on.
"For tonight, and the next night, can we pretend I am the only woman? The only one you have ever had, or ever will have? That there have been no others?" The plaintiveness of her request moved him.
"You do not want me to lie," he pointed out, "and that would be lying."
Outside the window a night-bird began to sing, its liquid melody pouring out through the garden, as sweet as a serenade; Sanat Ji Mani had an instant's recollection of being a troubador in France, fifty years before, and wishing he had been able to improvise just such a wonderful song then.
"No," she protested. "It would be
pretending
. I know there have been others and will be others, but just for now, let me pretend that I am the only one. Please."
Sanat Ji Mani was uncertain how to answer her. "I cannot deny the love I have had, as I cannot deny loving you."
"I do not ask you to
deny
it," she said, exasperation making her curt.
"You want me to pretend," he said before she could repeat it. "You would like me to have my love be for you and no one else."
"Yes. Tonight, and the next time we lie together. Say you love me and only me. Or, if you cannot do that, say nothing of anyone else. If there is a time after that, I know it will have to be different. But I want you to see: I have never had someone who was mine alone. I would like to know what it is like." She leaned toward him a bit, laying her hand along his face. "You can do this; I know you can."
"But almost no one has had someone who was theirs and theirs alone, even the women in the hareems have children, if they are fortunate, as well as their husbands, and devoted as they are to the man they have married, they defend their children most constantly," Sanat Ji Mani said. "To suppose otherwise is an illusion; and those who do
have one and only one person to complement their lives are not always pleased with the arrangement."
"I do not care," she said petulantly.
"It would lessen what we are to each other," he said as kindly as he could. "Why do you ask it of me?"
She tossed her head, letting her hair fall about her shoulders in soft disarray. "It is what I want: is it so impossible?"
Sanat Ji Mani rolled onto his side and laid his hand on her joined ones. "No, Tulsi. It is not impossible," he said, his voice low. "All right. If you like, tonight there is just you and me, no one else, ever. I will love you and only you."
She sighed. "Thank you." Beneath his hand, her fingers loosened.
"Do you know what else you want?" He carried her nearer hand to his lips, kissing each finger and then the palm.
"Yes, and I know I cannot have it," she said, glancing at him and away, pulling her hand out of his.
"Ah. You would prefer me not to be impotent," he said with understanding sympathy. "That I cannot change." He was surprised that she would be willing to set aside her dread of pregnancy for him, but also suspected that one of the reasons she wished for it was its safe impossibility.
In the garden, the serenade had become a duet, two birds twining melodies together in an endless string of variations. They rhapsodized leggiadrously, expanding their song as they went, as if to enchant the whole palace with their spell.
"It is unfortunate," said Tulsi, and added nothing more.
Sanat Ji Mani let himself be charmed by the birds, eventually reaching out to Tulsi, running his hand along the silk covering her arm. "This is lovely cloth, but your skin is far more exquisite."
Tulsi began to smile. "Do you like it, really? My hands are rough from my work." She looked down at her short, blunt nails and her worn palms with their calluses and healed cuts.
"Not so rough that they are incapable of caresses," he said, seeking to give her the sense of satisfaction she longed for.
"Perhaps, if you have not had softer," she murmured.
"I will not make comparisons," said Sanat Ji Mani.
"Then I will: I have seen the Rajput's women once or twice; they are like wonderful flowers. I am a weed." Tulsi pointed to the well-defined muscles in her leg. "I am not soft and pliant as they are."
"Oh, you are pliant," said Sanat Ji Mani with a hint of laughter. "I have seen you bend backward, balance on your forearms, and rest your feet on your head. As beautiful as the Rajput's women may be, they are incapable of half your feats."
"That is not what I meant," said Tulsi, trying to look haughty and instead appearing vainglorious. She quickly changed her demeanor. "I sometimes wish I could be more like them."
"From what I know of you, you would enjoy it for a day or two, and then the restrictions would chafe at you and you would long for the market-place and a crowd to watch your tumbling," said Sanat Ji Mani. "You are too free-spirited for the life those women live. Think how confined they are."
"They are confined," she agreed, "but they are cared for."
He studied her face, trying to find the source of her distress. "That they are, because they must be," he said, tracing the line of her brow, her cheek, her jaw with one delicate finger. "They cannot manage for themselves."
"They are freer than the women of a hareem," said Tulsi, following the movement of his finger as if it left a trail of scented oil. She arched into the caress as a cat would, doing her utmost to feel the whole of his touch.
"While that is true, it is also an admission of limitation," said Sanat Ji Mani, continuing down her neck to her collar-bone, tracing its elegant bend from neck to shoulder and back again, unhurried and sensuous.
"I could not live in a hareem," Tulsi admitted, and took a sharp breath as his finger began to descend through the loose opening of her robe.
"No, I do not think you could," said Sanat Ji Mani, opening his small hand so all his fingers were touching her, moving between her breasts; Sanat Ji Mani rose enough to be able to face her, both hands now working on her flesh without haste, luxurious as the feel of silk, but more persuasive; her robe was open from top to bottom, giving him access to her body and concealing her flesh at the same time. All
the while he watched her face, seeing every nuance of expression and using it as a guide to her gratification.
"Why is it?" Tulsi asked suddenly, "That women must be wholly subjected to men? I know the priests say it is what their gods all command, but they are men themselves."
"That they are," said Sanat Ji Mani, still stroking her. "You are not so very subjected to men, are you."
"Not as much as many women; they do not even think about it, do they?" she conceded. "But I am still— It is unfair."
"Yes. It is unfair," he agreed.
"And there is no way to avoid it," she said. "If I am to be with you, it must be as your woman."
"That is not what I want, Tulsi." Sanat Ji Mani regarded her steadily. "I do not think it will satisfy you."
"I want all this with you, and more, but I do not want to capitulate to my desires." She stopped his hands and half-closed her robe.
"I wish you were more able to trust me," said Sanat Ji Mani, watching her with dawning ruefulness in his eyes. "I cannot undo what has been done, but I am sorry I cannot bridge the gap. You deserve better."
"It is not a lack of trust, exactly," she said.
"What is it, then?" he asked.
She took a little time to gather her courage. "If I come to your life, I will not have to devote myself to you, will I?"
Sanat Ji Mani shook his head. "No; you will have to make your own life. All those of my blood must do so. Those who do not," he added, wincing inwardly at the image of Csimenae, "put themselves and all of our kind in danger."
She nodded. "I see." For a short while she sat unmoving, then she took his hands in hers. "Go on. I want you to go on."
He recommenced his ministrations, still moving slowly, all the while contemplating her face. "I will not demand anything of you that you do not wish to give, now or ever; I do not love that way," he promised her. "It would appall me if you suffered on my account any more than you have already." Gradually he eased her robe open again.
Tulsi's eyes were half-closed. "Better wandering the roads with you than riding in a wagon with Timur-i's army," she murmured.
For a response, he moved a little closer to her, using his lips to accentuate what his hands were doing, to enhance the pleasure he gave; her shivers and sighs marked his progress and led him to more discoveries as the silken robe brushed against his face. He did not speak, concentrating instead on unspoken things, and their touching, where sensation blurred and ran between them, anticipating the moment of fusion when their contact would reach to the depths of their souls.
"How do you…" She paused as new feelings awakened in her, some of them in her body, some in a more remote quarter, "um… do you… you…" She was silent but for her deepened breathing.
He did not shift his position, but he broadened his search; his hands moved leisurely, deliciously, from her breasts to her hips and back again, never demanding, never intrusive; he felt her begin to move with his hands, and ardor glowed in his dark eyes. His mouth grazed her taut belly and moved lower, gradually working his way to her opening legs. He found the nubbin that awakened to his touch, thrumming as wonderfully as the birds' song. Lingeringly he began to draw out the first trembling prelude to fulfillment; he would not rush her, and so, when her release came, he did not cease his coaxing, but continued to evoke pleasure from her until a second, more intense culmination shook her the length of her body and to the limits of her passion. He cradled her in his arms, their bodies touching from neck to knee, while her elation reached its greatest peak of intimacy, then began to fade; he lifted his head from her neck.
Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed with the enormity of her abandon, and the joy that suffused her face was like sunlight. Gradually she returned to herself, opening her eyes slowly, as if reluctant to give up the rapture she had achieved. "I did not know," she said at last.
"I hoped," said Sanat Ji Mani, still holding her close to him.
"Nothing ever—" She moved enough to be able to lean forward and kiss him; in the garden the birds' song seemed suddenly very loud. "You never told me—"
"There are things that cannot be told, only felt," Sanat Ji Mani said, kissing her gently on the arch of her brow.
"But how did you know?" She put her hands on the back of his neck and held their faces less than a thumb's-length apart. "You
knew
."
"I hoped," he repeated, meeting her luminous gaze with his own.
She took a deep breath. "The other times this did not happen, not this way. It was pleasant before, very pleasant, and I was satisfied. But this—"
"I had not yet made myself trustworthy to you," Sanat Ji Mani told her. "I am honored that you are willing to trust me."
"How can this be a question of trust? Why should trust matter?" she asked, and brought one hand around to stop him from speaking. "Do not tell me anything. I do not want to be told. I will think about it, and then you and I will discuss what I have learned, when I understand more than I do now."
He nodded. "If this is what you want," he said around her fingers.
"It is," she said, letting go of him and lying back, her happiness already diminished by what she knew was around her. "I feel as if I could fly off into the night, that I could fly across the world."
