Amara stood in the corner, windows on either side, and peered out into the night as the rain began to tick against the glass, forty-two stories above the rumpled and crumbling cityscape of Sonali Real. Dorian busied himself in the kitchen, heaping curried chicken and snow peas onto plates and trying to track down where his clean silverware might be. When he found everything he needed, he carried the food and bottles of beer around the island bar that separated the two rooms and set everything on the black lacquered coffee table in front of the sofa.
“You were right about the view,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s fantastic.”
