Returning to the folio, Phèdre traced the lines of one print with her forefinger. "This is strong work," she murmured. She met my eyes. There was a shadow in the depths of hers that only I understood. "What do you think?"

I answered in one word. "Erich."

There had been a young man of the Skaldi in the zenana of Daršanga. How he came to be there, I never knew. We never learned his story. No one spoke his tongue, and after the Mahrkagir had him gelded, he spoke to no one, until Phèdre arrived. He recognized her, though he did not say it for a long time. In Skaldia, they tell stories about her. I still remembered the words he spoke when he finally broke his silence, uttered in crude zenyan.

The defeated always remember.

Erich fought bravely for our freedom, though he did not live to see it. He kept his head when others lost theirs, and he spent his life protecting theirs. He took a dozen wounds before he died, and I had wept at his death.

"I made him a promise," Phèdre said quietly, remembering. "I swore I wouldn't blame the Skaldi for Waldemar Selig's war." She touched Ti-Philippe's arm. "Philippe, can you live with this? I will not do it if it pains you."

He sighed, studying the ceiling. "My lady, I would walk through fire for you, and well you know it. If it is your wish that I be attired as an Ephesian dancing girl, I will do it. If it is a Skaldic deity, I will do that, too. Whatever it be, I trust you have your reasons."

Phèdre kissed his cheek. "My thanks, Philippe."

I was watching Favrielle during the exchange, and saw her expression soften for a moment. It hardened the instant she noticed, and I smiled to myself.

"You people!" she exclaimed. "Name of Elua, it's just a Masque. Must everything always be a matter of life or death with you?"

So it was decided.

The costumes were gorgeous. How not? Favrielle was a genius, after all. She had a knack for making fabric sing like poetry, and whatever she might claim, she took a good deal of pride in dressing Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève and her household. On the afternoon of the Longest Night, she even sent one of her apprentices to assist with the preparations.

It was a lengthy process.

When it was done, I gazed at myself in the mirror and beheld a stranger.

As Favrielle had promised, I was clad all in hues of white. Mine was one of the simplest costumes. A shirt of ivory silk, open at the throat and fastened below with silver buttons shaped like mistletoe berries; a pair of white velvet breeches with a silver sash about the waist. Even my leather boots were white. So simple; and yet. Favrielle's apprentice had spent ages twining silver ribbons throughout my hair. It framed my face in an unlikely starburst, the silver bright against my blue-black locks.

Baldur the Beautiful, the Skaldi god of light, slain by a sprig of mistletoe.

But it was the mask that made all the difference. It was a half-mask of ivory silk, modeled on my own features, but motionless and still. The upper half of my face looked smooth and serene, distant as a god. I leaned forward, peering into the mirror. Yes, those were my dark blue eyes; those were my lips, looking unwontedly ripe. It was a strange interplay, the tension between the living flesh and the remote whiteness of the mask.

"Well, aren't you pretty!"

I jumped at Eamonn's voice. He leaned in the doorway, grinning at me, his mask shoved onto his forehead. He wore white boots, a cloak of ivory wool, and a long white jerkin trimmed with ermine, belted around the waist with a chain of silver links, leaving his brawny arms and lower legs bare. He lowered his mask to show me. Unlike mine, it was sculpted into an expression of thunderous intent. He hoisted a crudely shaped hammer covered in silver leaf.

"You look… imposing," I said.

"I feel a right dolt." He raised his mask. "Are we ready?"

"Nearly, I think."

Downstairs, Ti-Philippe joined us. He wore a doublet and breeches of ivory velvet, glittering with a tracery of silver embroidery. Like us, he had a silken half-mask, but his bore an expression of clever malice. Whether or not any of us looked like the Skaldic ideal of their deities, I doubt; I daresay we didn't. But we didn't look like ourselves, either.

And then Phèdre descended.

"Dagda Mor!" Eamonn whispered fervently.

She scintillated from every angle. Her gown was made of ivory satin, and it clung to her waist and torso as though it had grown there, leaving her shoulders and arms bare. It was adorned with ornate bead-work, refracting light. Below the waist, it flared and frothed, breaking like the crest of a wave upon the stairs. Her dark hair was loose, but a hundred small brilliants were fastened in it, looking like a net of stars. An intricate necklace of silver links and pale gems circled her throat. Unlike the three of us, she wore a small mask; a simple white domino that lent mystery to her eyes and hid none of her beauty.

"Well?" Phèdre smiled.

Eamonn knelt, offering up his silver hammer. "Lady, I lay myself at your feet!"

"You look like a goddess," I said honestly.

Ti-Philippe merely gave a low whistle, glancing at Joscelin, who was following his consort down the stairs, clad in plain woolen attire. "Sure you don't want to change your mind, Cassiline?"

He laughed. "I don't think your costume would fit me, chevalier." Joscelin turned to Phèdre, touching her hair. His steel vambraces glinted dully. "I'll see you after sunrise."

"Joie," she whispered to him.

"And to you, love." He kissed her, then. "Joie to all of you on the Longest Night!"

I thought about him on the journey to the Palace. Already, the City was ablaze with mirth. We made slow progress through the revelers. At every intersection, someone darted up to the carriage, proffering a flask or wineskin. We declined, laughing, and tossed them silver centimes for luck. Somewhere, I thought, amid all this gaiety, Joscelin was making his steady way toward the Temple of Elua. While we would pass the night in revelry, he would spend it kneeling on the frozen ground, immersed in silent prayer. "This, too, is sacred."

The words startled me. I stared at Phèdre, the blood warming my cheeks, remembering how Emmeline of Balm House had spoken them. "What?"

"This celebration." She gestured at the revelers outside the carriage window. "We celebrate the passing of darkness and the return of the light. It's a sacred ritual, as old as Earth herself."

"I know," I said. "I was just thinking about Joscelin." She smiled below her mask. "In his heart, he will always be Cassiel's servant. The Longest Night means a great deal to him. Only know, this path is no less worthy."

"And a lot more fun!" Ti-Philippe added. I nodded. "I will be mindful of it."

By the time we arrived, I had already ceased to fret. The stories I had heard failed to do justice to the pageantry of the Midwinter Masque. Every inch of the Palace was ablaze with light. Although we were not late, the ballroom was already filled with a throng of masked celebrants. Favrielle had guessed rightly; it was a riot of color; jewel tones, deep and rich. We made a stark white splash as we entered, the herald bawling our names. Eamonn stared about him, his eyes wide behind his mask's thunderous scowl, his mouth agape. I nudged him. "Act like a god." He raised his hammer and roared aloud.

It was a bit more than I had intended, but what could one do? I thought about Erich the Skaldi and laughed. I daresay they are not so different, the Daldriada and the Skaldi. With sublime disregard for the whispers and stares, Phèdre took Ti-Philippe's arm and plunged into the throng; trusting us to follow, trusting the others to make way for her.

We did; and so did they.

"Phèdre!" It was Queen Ysandre herself who hailed us. She came toward us, Sidonie and Alais in tow, flanked by members of her Guard. The Queen was dressed as the personification of Summer, while her daughters were Spring. She gave Phèdre the kiss of greeting. "My dear, what are you tonight?"

"Freyya," Phèdre said calmly. "A Skaldic deity."

There was a little pause. The Queen's brows rose. "All of you?"

"I am Donar!" Eamonn said helpfully, brandishing his hammer. "God of thunder!"

Ysandre blinked. Her gaze passed over Eamonn and Ti-Philippe, coming to rest on me. "And you, Prince Imriel?"

I bowed low, my head heavy with silver ribbon. "Baldur, your majesty, god of light."

The moment made me tense, but in the end, Ysandre merely sighed. "You do like to make matters interesting, my dear," she said. "So be it. Let this be a measure of the peace we have established. Be welcome. May the Longest Night pass swiftly, and light return."

We toasted one another with joie. It is a rare liqueur distilled from flowers that blossom in the snowdrifts of the CamaelineMountains and its taste is indescribable; at once cool on the palate and burning in the belly. Alais' eyes widened as she sipped hers.

"Your first taste?" I asked her.

She shook her head vigorously. "No, Mother let me try it last year, but I'd forgotten." She laughed breathlessly. "It's my first Masque, though! I've leave to stay until the Sun Prince arrives."

"You look lovely, young highness," Eamonn said gallantly. "Will you save a dance for me?"

"Oh, yes!" Alais blushed. "Thank you."

"I am honored." He bowed to her, giving me a wink.

It was true. She did look lovely, clad all in lavender with a matching mask, and a golden wreath on her black curls set with amethysts fashioned to look like violets. Sidonie, clad in pale green the color of new leaves, complemented her. She stood upright as a little spear-maiden beside her younger sister, inscrutable behind her mask. In the background, the Queen's Guardsmen hovered, chosen to attend as a special honor. They wore domino masks with their usual uniforms, but I knew Maslin by his silver-gilt hair. An imp of perversity goaded me.

"Since Eamonn has claimed your sister, mayhap you will honor me with a dance later," I said to Sidonie.

Her lips curved in a faint smile. "Mayhap. I've never danced with a god of light." Sidonie studied me. "You look the part, cousin. Were you thinking to be asked to play the Sun Prince?"

I opened my mouth to reply, then frowned, remembering. Long ago, another Prince of the Blood had done so in the Night Court's pageant; Baudoin de Trevalion, who had been at the center of a plot to replace Ysandre as heir to the throne of Terre d'Ange.

In the end, he had been executed for it.

"Not I," I said lightly. "Trust me, highness, I've no such ambition."

She nodded slowly. "We will see."

Mercifully, Julien and Colette Trente appeared, tugging me away into the festivities. I spent a few minutes brooding over the exchange, then forgot it, losing myself in merriment. Wine and joie were flowing freely, and there was so much to see. Everywhere one turned, there was an array of fantastical figures; gods and goddesses, sprites, nymphs and demons, creatures out of story and legend, animals of all ilk. The masks lent a sense of abandon to the proceedings. One knew who one's companions were; and yet they were strange and unfamiliar, no longer themselves. It made one sense anything was possible.

"Wait until midnight," Julien whispered in my ear.

"What happens then?" I asked.

He brushed one finger along my jaw. "Almost anything you like, highness." I shook my head at him, and he made a face. "Oh, come! It's the Longest Night, Imri. You needn't be so untouchable."

"Do you need rescuing, cousin?"

I turned at the sound of Roshana's voice, rich and amused. She was clad and masked in black velvet, a miniature huntsman's horn around her neck and a braided quirt of black leather about one wrist. "From this one?" I said, slinging my arm around Julien's shoulders. "I might."

"Come dance with me, then." She held out her hand. We danced well together. Roshana moved with supple grace, her lower body melded against mine, following my lead effortlessly. Growing aroused, I drew back a few inches, holding her away from me. The quirt that dangled from her wrist hovered between us.

She laughed low in her throat. "You are afraid of me!"

"No," I said. "It's just—"

"Then dance with me." Behind the black velvet of her mask, Roshana's eyes were a dusky, phosphorous blue, aglow with challenge. I wondered if mine looked the same.

"All right." Reckless, I drew her close.

When it was done, we were both of us breathing hard. Roshana regarded me with new respect. "Your friend's right, you know," she said. "Anything can happen on the Longest Night." Tilting her head, she kissed me, swift and unexpected. I felt her tongue dart between my lips, tasting of joie. "Don't forget your family." She laughed, leaving me.

I stood for a moment, swaying, gritting my teeth against the sharp stab of desire.

"Imriel!" Eamonn's hand descended on my shoulder. He looked happy and a little drunk, his mask shoved up onto his disheveled hair. Somewhere, he had lost Donar's silver-leafed hammer. "I've been dancing with one of the married ladies. I think she fancies me. Come on, let's get some wine, and you can tell me about her."

I took a deep breath. "I need to sit down."

He glanced down at me. "Dagda Mor! I think maybe you do."

We found chairs at the Queen's table, which was piled high with food. There was no formal dining hour on the Longest Night, only a constant supply of abundance. Revelers paused to eat or drink, plunging back into the fray. It was a relief to have a respite from it. Once the ache of desire passed, I filled a plate, listening with half an ear to Eamonn's story.