Chapter 17: VictoireRAVEL PULLS AWAY, careful not to jostle my refilled glass of dust. He strips off his tunic, and I barely remember to be horrified. It helps that Refuge and its regulations seem so far away right now. I’m very warm and sort of heavy-feeling, somehow.
His skin is covered in bold black designs like those on his face, the marks sharply curving and twining across his chest and around his arms from shoulder to elbow. He shines under the diffuse, warm light as attendants rub oil and even more gold into his skin. They sweep fresh paint across him, linking the designs so ink flows seamlessly from the existing marks, a single interwoven pattern from hairline to wrists. It’s mesmerizing.
“Victoire?” Ravel flicks my rumpled mask free, tipping my hood back in a fluid motion that d
