“There’s my next duchess waiting in the hall.” Her nearly-husband’s voice. Safiyah twitched herself together at the sound, all the drones that made her up closing into proper formation. Unseen, she’d drifted apart where the edges of her were supposed to hold the rest in—her sleeves and skirts furling around each other to hide where she’d gone fuzzy. Thank goodness for robes and veils, for propriety, for all the ways nearly-brides were made unobtrusive. And here came her nearly-husband. His arms bare, his neck, his face. What a show of power. He was not unattractive, so long as you didn’t