unknown right now

Image 1 [start id]

A picture of text from a book that reads:

"He turned back around. Nahri was no longer looking at him; instead she was leaning against a cushion, her attention focused on cleaning and admiring her new medical tools, a far happier expression on her face. She'd removed her scarf, and her hair fell to her waist in a thick halo of black curls.

The sight stole his breath. Forget the royal finery she'd worn as Daevabad's next queen. Sailing down the Nile in a dull secondhand dress with the Egyptian sun shining on her face, deadly medical tools in her hands, Nahri was radiant. What Ali would do to sink his fingers into her hair, to pull her close...

[italicized] Shame on you. She makes herself comfortable and you betray her trust by ogling her? [end italics] Ali dropped his gaze, heat creeping up his neck his friend—his brother's widow, no less—and here he was, fantasizing about her."

[end id]

Image 2 [start id]

​A photo of text in a book that reads: "Ali rolled his eyes but headed back toward their boat, water streaming down his legs. Ever prim, Ali kept a dry shawl within arm's reach out the river when he swam, but he was still soaked to the bone, the glistening water droplets clinging to his bare skin twinkling in the sun.

'There are no more pomegranates,' he called back, rooting through the basket where they kept their fruit. 'Will an orange do?'

Nahri didn't respond right away. The shawl had slipped from Ali's back while he searched, creating a rather distracting effect. The waist cloth he wore when swimming was tied tight around his hips. Very tight. And it too was still wet, leaving perhaps less to the imagination than its wearer intended.