Mint, leather, rosemary, sweat.

I cling to Father’s shoulders as he carries me through the streets, taking us deeper and deeper into Aphorai City. Every soldier we pass nods to their commander, fist to chest, respect so sure it could be engraved on their features. They don’t seem to pay any mind to the torrent of aroma and stench surging around us. To them, it’s nothing but a gentle stream babbling in the background. But to me, the flood of odors turns Aphorai’s broadest avenue into a mighty river—rushing at me, over me, a wall of water roaring down from the mountains at snowmelt.

If I don’t scramble free, find some clear air, I’ll be engulfed. The invisible hand of panic clamps around my throat. My breaths come short and sharp. Is this what it feels like to realize you’re going to drown? I can’t—

Control it, I tell myself, scrunching my eyes shut and pinching my nostrils together. Now, one at a time. Single them out. Found one? Hold tight. Count. Inhale … mint. Exhale … leather. That’s it. Breathe. Just breathe.

I’ve regained a semblance of calm by the time we reach the walls of the temple complex. Father lifts me from his shoulders. When we face each other, I notice he stands only a head taller than me. Are we on a staircase? No, a level path. Strange.

“You’ll have to walk on your own from here, little one.”

“But I want to stay with you.” Tears prick my eyes. “Please.”

His only reply is to drape a necklace over my head—a silver chain and locket. My eyes widen at the locket’s delicate engraving, tiny stars strewn across the metal as if it were cast from a piece of the night sky. I throw my arms around Father. “Thank you.”

“Open it.”

I do as he says. On one side, there’s an empty balm container. I bring it to my nose. Nothing.

“When you’re old enough, you can choose your own.” He points to the other side, the lid, lined with a tiny portrait of a woman. “Your mother.”

I can’t remember her scent, so have no chance at recalling her image. But if she did look like the cameo, she was striking. Noble forehead, straight nose, high cheekbones. A set to her jaw that warned of a will implacable as stone beneath the smile.

“You grow to look more like her each day.”

I take a closer look. I think he sees what he wants to see. Though there’s no denying my eyes are set in the same slightly-wider-than-I’d-like way, and that my hair grows in flyaway strands that make it a battle keeping it off my face, let alone trying to tame it into sleek braids. Even now, frizz tickles at my nose. I swipe it away with a scowl.

Father laughs softly. “You have her temper, too.”

At least that sounds like the truth.

“What did she wear?” I ask, holding out the locket, balm container facing up.

His weathered face takes on a wistful cast. “Desert rose.”

Like countless times before, I close my eyes and try to remember. Desert rose. With a hint of cardamom for richness? Maybe a note of black pepper to make it her own? That could be it. Was it? I don’t know. And if it was, why can I only smell lavender? Lavender filling my nose, my sinuses, my throat. Lavender meant to calm the injured. To soothe babies to sleep. But by the six hells, this lavender burns.

I surge awake, gasping for air. The girl leaning over me jerks back. She’s dressed in yellow, but the fabric that slides across my arm is as smooth as water.

Silk? For a servant?

Satisfied that I’ve come to, the girl straightens and stoppers a small glazed pot.

Smelling salts.

Something itches at the corner of my fogged mind as I realize I’m lying on my back, cold marble under me. My eyes trace the fanciest reed-woven ceiling I’ve ever seen, a five-spoked candlewheel above me casting a single pool of light in the room. The only item of furniture I can see is a low stone bench piled with blue cushions—indigo, cobalt, azure, and then some.

With a few more breaths, the assault of ammonia on my nose gives way to the warm richness of Aphorai’s prized incense. It’s the pure kind, not that coarse powdered version they burn in the streets.

Dragon’s blood.

It worked. I’m here.

I shove myself into a sitting position and press the heels of my palms to my temples, head clanging like someone clashed cymbals between my ears. By the time the ringing subsides, the servant girl has retreated into the shadows. It’s doubtful I would have noticed the two guards hulking there were it not for the pungent waves of stale garlic and last night’s beer they’re sweating.

Whether it’s the thought of them having worse headaches than I do, or the residual effects of the concoction I swallowed, I begin to laugh. It’s more mad than merry, and the movement sends pain shooting down my neck. I bring my hand up with a wince. Guess I strained it when I passed out.

It’s then that I recognize the prickling feeling of being watched. Sized up.

Fine. I’ve played the game so far. No point in pulling out now.

“Mandragora,” I say to anyone listening beyond the flickering candlelight. But my voice is hoarse and barely carries. I clear my throat and try again. “It was mandragora you slipped me, wasn’t it? Masked with bitter melon.”

Nothing. Then, from the shadows, comes slow, deliberate applause.

“Bravo.”

I snort.

“Truly. I don’t know another nose in this city that could have deduced that.”

The man who could only be Zakkurus emerges from the gloom. Tall and lithe, the dark silk of his robe blooms with tiny lilies in silver thread. His midnight hair is pulled back with a silver band, the fine features cast in pale hue of a life lived sheltered from the desert. With sinuous grace, he crosses the floor, lips curled in a smile. It’s subtle, but I wonder if he stains them with pomegranate. Given the intricate swirls of rur ink outlining his eyes—cold and lapis blue in the candlelight—I wouldn’t be surprised.

So the rumors are true. Aphorai’s chief perfumer is as beautiful as he is reclusive. Younger than I thought, too. I’d never really believed someone could rise through the ranks that fast. But as he settles on the cushioned bench before me, my skepticism is shaken. He couldn’t have seen a handful of turns more than me.

Zakkurus folds one long leg over the other and silently regards me. I resist flinching when he reaches forward and cups my chin. His skin is incredibly soft, and so is his scent. The fleeting freshness of violet water spills over me. It sends my imagination away from this strange dark room, away from this situation, so that I’m strolling through a garden in the cool of morning, new dawn dancing colors in the fountains, rare blooms in each terraced bed waiting to unfurl in the sun. I sigh and the scent dissipates, leaving only my longing and envy as its echo.

Zakkurus turns my head, inspecting me like a pack animal in the auction pens. “Did they hurt you, petal?” The perfumer’s gaze flicks toward the hungover guards. “I told them you weren’t to be harmed. But someone in my position must be ever so careful when receiving unofficial guests.”

“I’m not exactly a—”

“Delicate flower?”

I shrug.

“No,” Zakkurus says, lounging back on the cushions, gaze taking a languid wander from my dust-crusted boots to where my hair escapes its wrap. “You wouldn’t have made it this far if you were.” And with that, he pulls a bag into his lap and begins to examine its contents.

My satchel.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Barden’s voice. Be careful. I shake my head, trying to clear the last of the wooliness.

“Well then, my indelicate flower, care to tell me how you stumbled across a small fortune of pure desert rose oil?”

I meet his eyes. Don’t flinch now, Rakel. “I made it.”

I’m damn proud of it, too. An entire season of scrabbling through canyons, harvesting by my own hand. It’s the purest I’ve ever refined, far better than the cloudy dregs found in the market after the best stuff is shipped off to the imperial capital. The secret? Oil, not water. Unless you want to send it straight to the sky, there’s no point distilling rose petals, boiling and steaming their essence from them. That’s too aggressive. Violent, even. Things go much better if you coax the scent out. Gently. They have to want to give up their perfume. Press them between layers of solid fat over days, not hours, and that’s what they do.

Not that I’m about to volunteer that information.

Zakkurus is still smiling, but his eyes have hardened to sapphires. “Come, now. Business associates must afford one another respect. Particularly those who have the … vision to bypass imperial regulations, no?”

Respect. Easy to demand, hard to give. I nod grudgingly.

“Lovely to know we’re burning the same taper. Now, where did you get this?”

“I. Made. It. You haven’t even checked for the maker’s mark. Where’s the respect in that?”

Blue eyes bore into me.

I hope they don’t notice my pulse quicken in my throat.

He waves his hand as if swatting at a sandfly. “Leave us.” Several pairs of feet shuffle away in the darkness.

I smirk in satisfaction when he unstoppers the lid, peering inside as if he were trying to read the stars in the bottom of a cup of kormak. Then he circles the jar under his nose. He frowns and makes another swirl, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

“By all means, take your time.” There’s nothing preventing me from standing. Except the fact that my legs have gone to sleep. I grit my teeth and force myself up, pacing through the prickling pain, not daring to leave the pool of light.

Zakkurus produces a sampling reed from inside his robe. With a steady hand, he dips it in the jar, then holds it above one of the candles. The flame devours it quick as a sniff, charred remains dropping into a copper dish. He rubs the ash between thumb and forefinger, staining them gray, and gives one final huff.

By the time he’s finished his inspection, my blood has reacquainted itself with my toes.

“Satisfied? There’s more where that came from. Question is, are you in the market?”

“Why are you really here, petal?”

I’d rehearsed this over and over for moons. Just not when my mouth was so dry, my tongue this thick. I can barely swallow down my nerves. “The apprenticeship trials are three days from now. I—”

“Even if your skills are what they appear, the trials favor the brats from the five families.”

I was hoping for this: that he hadn’t forgotten who he was, where he came from. I allow myself a small smile at his disdain.

“By Esiku’s beard, you do think you have a chance.” He throws back his head and laughs.

Heat flushes my cheeks. The only thing stopping me from turning on my heel and storming out the door is that I’m not sure where the door is.

I claw back my temper. “Have I ever botched an order? No. You make good money from me, Zakkurus. Hear me out, and you could make more. Much more.”

He raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Tell me the final fabrication test.”

“You’re asking me to help you cheat in my own selection trials? Has all that dreadfully hot out-of-town sun withered your wits?”

“I prefer ‘leveling the field.’ If I win, you can be as sure as scat stinks that you’ve selected the best of the best new apprentices, not just the ones that could afford a full kit. Imagine the reputation I could help you build. Catch the attention of the capital. Put Aphorai back on the map.”

His eyes widen ever so slightly. I’m getting somewhere.

“And if you lose?”

I hold up a jar of desert rose oil. “It’s not just this. I’ve already tested the method on white ginger blossom. Jasmine, too.” I point to his robe. “Bet it’d even work on water lilies.” I step past him, out of the light. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the gloom. A patterned carpet drapes down the wall—soft under my palm, worth more than a lifetime of toil for most people from my village. The bitter taste of unwanted sureness coats my tongue. There’s no other way.

“If I lose, I’ll give you ten turns exclusively. I’ll supply you and you only. Still off the books. Tax collector none the wiser.”

Zakkurus taps one long finger against his thigh, my bargain hanging between us like noxious smoke.

I clench my jaw.

Four taps.

Five.

He leans forward. “I’d want full indenture. Nothing less.”

My stomach churns. Indenture. Typical that someone who no longer struggles can speak the word so easily.

“I know I’m the best.” I manage to sound more confident than I feel, now that this unfamiliar room in only-stench-knows what part of the city, has become a cliff edge.

His eyes search the shadows. “You’re not the only one to have stood there and said those words.”

“And back then the risk was worth it, wasn’t it?”

He doesn’t flinch at my stab at the truth. “Let’s say I do decide to help you. What is there to keep you from tragically suffering memory loss and wandering off to a distant oasis?”

With no small measure of guilt, I wonder if Father has discovered his seal gone. I wish I hadn’t needed to take it, but if he had any idea what I’d planned he would have forbidden me from leaving the house.

“I have people I care about.”

He sniffs. “I deal in scent, not sentiment.”

I reach into my robe for Father’s seal. “That’s why I’ll put it in clay.”

We both stare at the object in my hand—the stone carved with a series of pictograms—a rose, a battle helmet, the zigzag of a mountain range—our family name and crest. For the thousandth time, I wonder if there’s another way.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp clap of Zakkurus’s hands. The servant girl reappears, nods at the perfumer’s instructions, and scurries away.

Soon after, a table sits between us.

Most of the contract’s language is beyond me, but the phrase “ten turns” is clear as freshly distilled water. I’m gambling on a decade of my freedom, and yet I’m strangely numb as I press the cylinder seal into the unfired tablet, rolling it until Father’s full signature is indisputably indented at the bottom of the contract. Next to it, I press my thumb into the clay, the swirled lines confirming my identity.

It’s done.

The servant whisks away the tablet. In its place sits a blue faience bottle.

“Go on,” Zakkurus says. “It won’t bite you.”

I work the tiny stopper out, waiting for its contents to greet me.

There’s simple enough topnotes. Star jasmine. Honey vine. Purrath blossom. So far, so good.

The base is … amyris? Interesting. I would’ve thought it too plain. Then again, it wouldn’t overpower more delicate ingredients like a sandalwood base would. Spicy midnotes are overlaid through. Cinnamon? Yes. And something earthy grounding it. Carrot seed is my guess. Good. I’ve got enough of those in my stores.

But there’s something else.

It’s barely traceable. Yet it lends a distinctiveness. Lifts the perfume above the common. Something about its combination of tart crispness and lilting sweetness tickles at my memory.

I was very young. Father still served the Eraz, leading a campaign to put down border skirmishes in the foothills of the Alet Range. I’d stayed with Barden’s family, night after night clutching my locket and wishing on anything—the stars, the gods—that he would return safe. They didn’t listen. And I vowed I’d never ask them for help again.

Instead, I wished on the lost memory of my mother.

I’d grown a half hand taller by the time we were at the palace, where they’d put a new sash on him. The Eraz had his own daughter do the honors; Father knelt so she could reach. Lady Sireth and I were of an age, yet the scent she wore set us worlds apart. At first crisp and sweet like a pomegranate in early autumn. But then more, so much more. I no longer believed, but I understood how others could think anyone who smelled like that could only be descended from the heavens.

That’s it. Next season, the Eraz and his family will remind everyone of the source of their power, beyond their imperially sanctioned rule in Aphorai. They’ll anoint themselves with the perfume of a god.

“Dahkai,” I breathe.

Zakkurus regards me, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Yes, yes, petal, the darkest bloom. Though calling it that seems—how should one put it—disrespectful. It’s the prettiest, most darling little flower for those fleeting hours.”

A darling flower that has started wars and ended dynasties since the edge of memory. A flower worth more than a lifetime of indentured labor. And a flower I now need if I’m going to help Father.

I choose my words carefully. “I can’t get dahkai in the markets.”

Rounding his lips into an O of mock horror, the perfumer produces the tiniest vial I’ve ever seen. No bigger than the tip of my little finger to the first knuckle, it’s in the same signature blue as the perfume bottle. He gestures to the jars of desert rose, so plain and unassuming next to the showy faience. “I’ll consider these, and your contract, a down payment.”

“That’s a moon of food and—” I stop shy of saying “medicine.” And I bite down on the other things I want to say—that I thought we had an understanding, that we recognized each other. That Zakkurus remembered what it was to be desperate.

“I’ll take a risk on you, petal. But I’m no charitable benefactor.”

Charitable benefactor. The bartender’s words chime a duet with Barden’s “be careful.”

I’ve traded everything for a vial of the most valuable substance in the Empire—so precious that every last drop is regulated. Try to sell it and I’m more likely to find myself in a dungeon than find zigs in my purse. But what else could I have done? What else can I do? If I leave the dahkai essence, I’ve lost the trials already. I scoop up the vial and snatch my now-empty satchel from the table.

The perfumer waves a manicured hand and the servant girl slips once again from the shadows, her face downturned as she hands me a cup. One sniff is all it takes this time. I never forget a scent. Mandragora masked with bitter melon.

Zakkurus smiles his snakelike smile. “Now be a good girl and take your medicine.”