Feverish with desire and fear, I struggled to frame a reply.

Melisande ignored my efforts and kissed me.

The Name of God ignited in my skull, blazing under the touch of her lips, her tongue. I saw our paths crossing and recrossing, the myriad paths of might-have-been. All the scenarios that might have happened, had events not fallen out as they did. And in each and every one, our fates were intertwined. In one, she joined forces with Anafiel Delaunay and stood in loco parentis to me, a relationship as fraught with difficult tensions as the worst possibilities I feared for Imriel. In another, she wed Baudoin de Trevalion, and I served as plaything to both. In an other, I stood beside her, gazing at the poisoned corpse of Waldemar Selig , knowing myself the agent of his death.

All of these, and more.

All that might have been.

Melisande raised her head and released me. "Take care of my son."

"I will." How I got out the words, through a throat choked tight with longing and vision and the Name of God, I will never know— but I did. Melisande only nodded.

She had always, always known me better than anyone else.

"Good-bye, Phèdre."

EIGHTY-EIGHT

I ENTERED the Temple of Asherat to find Joscelin engaged in describing to Imriel events that had transpired therein some twelve years past, standing in the corner and whispering as he pointed to the balcony opposite the mighty effigy. The priestesses of Asherat frowned visibly behind their veils and muttered, displeased.Asherat-of-the-Sea, immortal and less easily discomfited, maintained her solemn gaze across the emptiness of domed space, crowned with stars. Like the One God's Sacred Name, her mystery had endured longer than mortal memory, and it would endure too when we had gone, passing to the true Terre d'Ange-that-lies-beyond.

Because I knew it was so, I laughed.

Joscelin lifted his head in answer and smiled at me. And there was no covert message in his smile, no dire knowledge, only simple gladness at my presence. "Did she agree to it?"

I nodded and held out one hand to Imriel.

He came warily, the old fear riding him. "She promised?"

"Yes," I said. "Not all of it. Only the important part."

"Will she keep her promise?" His shadowed eyes searched my face.

"She will," I said. "And we will go home."

From the Temple, we went to the Banco Tribuno where I still had notes of promise on record from my factor in the City of Elua, Messire Brenin. His Serenissiman contact there remembered me well, and forbore to comment on the strangeness of our Jebean attire. I signed a scrip for funds sufficient to our purpose, and we went thence to the tailors' quar ter and commissioned travelling garb in the Serenissiman style, bright- hued velvets and heavy capes trimmed with ermine. It was overly ornate for my tastes, but far more suitable for the cold Caerdicci winters.

"You didn't have to get the ermine trim," Joscelin observed.

I regarded him over the fur collar of my new cloak. "I am the Comtesse de Montrève, after all. Don't you think I ought to look the part?"

As always, there were other arrangements to be made. Had it merely been Joscelin and I, we would have travelled as before, just the two of us—but there was Imriel to consider, and I had not forgotten the bandits that had attacked us last time we travelled between Terre d'Ange and Caerdicca Unitas. To that end, Ricciardo Stregazza found us an escort, mercenaries he was willing to vouch for personally, sailors out of work until the spring trade resumed. And there were all the usual questions to consider, supplies and routes, water and fodder and the rest.

There was one other matter, too.

I debated it, but in the end, I chose to send a letter to Severio Stregazza, who is the lord of the Little Court, now—the Palazzo Immortali, he renamed it. He inherited it some time after the death of his grandfather, who was Prince Benedicte de la Courcel.

I had known Severio well, once; he had been a patron of mine. He is still the only man who has ever asked to wed me, and I even con sidered it ... for a moment. It is as well for both of us that I said no. But he is also the only one of Imriel's Serenissiman kin surviving who has not committed some manner of murder or treason.

Severio's aunt, Thérèse, took part in the assassination of Isabel L'Envers de la Courcel, Ysandre's mother. I will never forget that, for it is the knowledge for which my foster-brother, Alcuin, risked his life— and it was the knowledge Delaunay used to buy a dubious alliance with Duc Barquiel L'Envers.

Barquiel had Severio's uncle Dominic killed for it. I don't forget that, either.

And Severio's mother Marie-Celeste, who was Prince Benedicte's eldest daughter—Marie-Celeste masterminded the plot to have old Cesare removed as Doge, and her husband Marco installed in his stead. Or so they say, in La Serenissima. It was Marie-Celeste who suborned the Temple of Asherat, of that I was certain. Melisande had always been careful to avoid blasphemy.

It is why I knew she would keep her oath.

Even now, if a cult grew around her exile, I did not doubt that she chose her words with care, making no claims that might offend the gods, knowing all the while what effect they might have on Asherat's mortal adherents. And I did not doubt that her genius lay behind Marie- Celeste's treason.

Be as that may; Severio, like his uncle Ricciardo, was one of the good ones, afflicted with the scruples so many of his family lacked. I wrote to him from Villa Gaudio, stressing the need for discretion.

Ricciardo's courier was returned posthaste, in an elegant bissone that bore the Stregazza arms of the carrack-and-tower framed by a pair of the arch-necked swans of House Courcel. A half-dozen noblemen from the Immortali, Severio's beloved club, accompanied it. I recognized their leader, clad in a sweeping cloak of blue velvet, lined with saffron- yellow.

"Contessa," he cried as their helmsman maneuvered the gilded craft alongside Villa Gaudio's dock. "Contessa, come back, and break my heart again!"

"Benito Dândi," I said, smiling.

He grinned, and swept a bow. "You remembered!"

I did remember. The Immortali had saved my life in the Temple of Asherat. And Severio Stregazza had led them to it, intervening even as I held the point of a dagger to my own throat, obedient to Melisande's will, desperate to stop her at all costs.

"Of course," I said, while Joscelin raised his brows. "My lord Benito . . . Severio did tell you I begged his discretion?"

"Oh, yes." Benito's grin widened, and he indicated the silk-draped canopy of the bissone. "Under there, no one will see you, but we trusted Immortali will know the pleasure of your visage, which is all the reward we ask. Sir Cassiline, you, of course, are welcome to keep your weapons," he said with a certain deference — Joscelin's duel with the Cassiline traitor David de Rocaille remained legend among those who had witnessed it. "And you ..." He bowed again, this time to Imriel, his face openly curious. "You must be the kinsman. Welcome, young lord."

We made our way to the former Little Court, entering through the gates off the Grand Canal, where Benito Dândi leapt to the quai to usher us ashore, and the guards waved us through. It was strange, after so long. The air was bright and crisp, reflecting off the water of the canals to cast wavering reflections on the cool marble. Imriel gazed at it in wonderment.

"You were born here," I told him.

He swallowed. "I don't ... I don't feel a part of it."

"No." I stroked his hair. "I suppose not. Neither did your father, not truly. He wanted a son of pure D'Angeline blood. But it is a part of your history, and you should know it."

"And Severio may be an ally," he said.

Much as I hated to see Imri's face take on that unchildish cast, I nodded. "Politics."

It would be a reality in his life, in ours. Always.

The Little Court had changed. The touches, the D'Angeline nice ties, remained; vases in the alcove niches, rich carpets on cold marble floors. These had been augmented by Serenissiman decor—elaborate wooden carvings, inlaid mosaics depicting the exploits of the Stregazza line all the way back to Marcus Aurelius Strega.

Severio received us privately in his chambers, for which I was grate ful. I do not have fond memories of the throne-room in that place, which is where Remy and Fortun died.

"Phèdre," he said in Caerdicci, opening his arms to embrace me and give me the D'Angeline kiss of greeting. "It has been too long."

I embraced him in turn. Severio had grown solid with status and contentment, wealthy beyond his dreams with the inheritance he'd earned. He'd had a young man's face when I'd first known him; he was older now, a man grown, lines carved at the corners of his mouth, etched beneath the brown curls that spilled over his brow. "Severio," I said. "It is good to see you."

"And you." He clasped my hands, smiling. "Ah, Phèdre! Time has treated you too kindly. Has it been ten years? Twelve? I would not believe it to look at you. And you, my lord Cassiline." Severio took Joscelin's arm in a strong grip. "My master-of-arms makes me recite your fight in the Temple from memory at least once a year. He's never forgiven me for missing the end."

"Prince Severio," Joscelin murmured, bowing.

"And you." Severio turned to Imriel and gave him the formal Serenissiman bow used among equals. "You are my kinsman, I think; my half-uncle, if I am not mistaken."

Imriel returned his bow, reddening. "My lord, I am Imriel. Only Imriel."

Severio gave me a quizzical look. "It is true," I said to Imri. "Your father, Prince Benedicte, was my lord Severio's grandfather. His mother is your half-sister, though many years removed."

"I'm sorry," Imriel muttered. "I'm sorry, my lord."

"It doesn't matter, little cousin," Severio said, his tone unwontedly gentle. He had matured in more ways than one since I'd met him. "Shall we say that, then? Cousins, and neither of us proud of our heritage. You did not choose the manner of your birth, and I ... I profited by it in the end. Do you grudge me the Little Court, the Palazzo Immor tali? Your father intended it to be yours, you know, once upon a time."