I’d never known anyone else to remark on it.

Finished with his measurements, Benoit Vallon gestured for Bao to clothe himself once more. “Very good. Do you remember what I told you at our first consultation, my lady?”

I smiled. “I do, messire. You advised me that autumn hues would flatter me best, and that if I must wear color, to avoid bright hues in favor of deep jewel tones. Oh, and that I should never wear stark white, but ivory instead.”

“So I did. Well done, child.” He picked through the piles of fabric I’d heaped on the bed. “I’ll take this, and this…” A pair of squares of embroidered silk I’d set to the side caught his eye, and he picked them up to study them. “Interesting. These were never Bhodistani work, were they?”

“No,” I said. “Ch’in.”

There were two squares, one embroidered with a pattern of flowering bamboo, the other with a pattern of black-and-white magpies. I had purchased them both in a Ch’in village called Tonghe. The first had been embroidered by Bao’s half-sister; the second, by his mother.

Benoit glanced up at me. “They’re lovely.”

“They are,” I agreed. “But I fear they’re not available.”

“Why not, Moirin?” Bao asked softly. I looked at him in surprise. “Such things were meant to be used,” he said. “To be worn, to be enjoyed and admired. It is what my mother would have intended.” He smiled at me. “Even though you are apt to hoard your treasures like a dragon with his pearl, it is what she would have wished. And I would wish to honor her; and my sister, too.”

“These were made with love, then.” Benoit Vallon spread one long-fingered hand over the squares, the expression on his face somber. “If you allow me to take them, I will do justice to them.”

Bao and I looked at one another.

I nodded. “Take them.”

For the balance of the day, Bao and I went our separate ways. He kept his standing appointment with Desirée and her tutor, improving his grasp on the western alphabet, before meeting with the tumblers of Eglantine House to counsel them further on the spectacle they were planning.

I met with Lianne Tremaine, who served me fragrant tea and unveiled her latest poem pushing back against the narrative the unknown poet in Night’s Doorstep had advanced, accusing the Lady of Marsilikos of taking advantage of the controversy to promote House Mereliot’s influence.

I studied the rough draft, sketched on foolscap. “You’re holding back.”

“Do you think I should have been more aggressive in challenging the notion of Jehanne and Raphael as star-crossed lovers?” she asked dryly. “Moirin, the problem is that they did carry on a very long, very infamous affair, and everyone in the City of Elua and I daresay the entire realm knows it. You even said so yourself. To argue against it would be… un-D’Angeline. And I cannot assail Raphael’s character on the grounds it deserves without dragging you into the fray by implication.”

“You, too,” I noted.

“Precisely.” Lianne tapped the foolscap. “So, as you say, I’m holding back. Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.”

“I understand.” I took a deep breath. “About Raphael… tell me, how did he seem to you after the… incident?”

She was silent a moment. “We didn’t have much contact with one another for a long time afterward,” she said at length. “None of us did. Knowing Raphael, and knowing how I felt, I can only guess.” She gave me a fleeting glance. “Mainly, horrified. Horrified by the results of our failure, horrified at what befell Claire Fourcay.” A shudder ran over her. “Horrified at how much worse it might have been. And as to how Raphael felt about that, I cannot even begin to guess.” She shuddered again. “He had that, that thing’s essence inside him.”

“That thing had a name,” I said. “Focalor, Grand Duke of the Fallen.”

“I know that!” Lianne Tremaine snapped at me. “Name of Elua! Do you imagine I could ever forget it?”

“No.” I did not say what I was thinking, which was that the fallen spirits were no better than things to the Circle of Shalomon, useful tools they hoped to wield. If they knew the spirits’ names, it was only for the purpose of binding them. Still, the memory was a heavy burden to carry. “No, I do not.”

Both of us were silent, remembering. I didn’t know if the poetess had seen what I’d seen in the fallen spirit’s incandescent eyes: staved hulls and storm-tossed seas beneath a raging sky; hundreds, mayhap thousands, drowning; mayhem and destruction for the sheer joy of it. Whatever she had seen, it was enough to horrify her.

I thought, too, of the last glimpse I’d had of Raphael de Mereliot; of the faint spark of Focalor’s lightning I thought I’d seen in Raphael’s eyes. To this day, I didn’t know if I’d imagined it or not. “Lianne… did you ever have cause to suspect there was aught of Focalor’s essence that lingered in him?”

Her face turned white. “No! Gods, no! Do you think it did? Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I would not have thought it possible for my diadh-anam to be divided.”

Lianne gave another violent shudder and made an old-fashioned gesture to avert ill luck. “I didn’t see Raphael until after…” She hesitated. “After Jehanne’s death. And he was well nigh as broken as his majesty. She’d refused to see him, you know. After the summoning.”

“No,” I murmured. “I didn’t know.”

She nodded. “Jehanne was furious at him—truly furious, not like one of their usual spats.” There was sympathy in her gaze. “She blamed him for nearly getting you killed.”

“It was my choice,” I said. “And Claire Fourcay was killed.”

Lianne shook her head. “Claire took the risk willingly; we all did. Not you. Raphael blackmailed you into it.”

“I know.” That final summoning had been the price of saving my father’s life; but it was still my choice. “So Raphael never saw Jehanne again until…?” It was still hard to say the words.

“On her death-bed.” Lianne supplied them gently. “The King sent for him before the end. He tried to save her.”

I knew; I’d seen his majesty’s memory. But I hadn’t known it was the only time Raphael had seen Jehanne since I’d left. “Stone and sea!” My voice shook a bit. “That’s hard.”

“It is,” the poetess agreed. “So you can see why I’m reluctant to assail their tragic affair.” She cocked her head. “Moirin, if I may ask, why do you care? Why such an interest in Raphael de Mereliot?” She lowered her voice, eyes widening. “Do you really think a part of Focalor resides in him?”

I traced the rim of the tea-cup that sat on the table before me. “Truly, I don’t know. I only know that Jehanne came to me in my dreams and told me that I have unfinished business with him.” I glanced up at Lianne. “Does that sound too absurd for belief?”

“From you?” She smiled wryly. “Hardly.”

I sighed. “My lady Jehanne says she doesn’t know why, only that it’s so. And she cannot pass on to the Terre d’Ange-that-lies-beyond or to rebirth until it’s done. She says I’ll need her before the end.”

“Did she bid you serve as Desirée’s protector?” Lianne asked. “That would add a fine twist to the tale.”

“No.” I shook my head. “I’ve not dreamt of her since before leaving Bhaktipur. She asked me only to promise that I would tell her daughter good things about her mother, things no one else knew, things no one else would tell her.”

Her mouth twisted. “Like the fact that Jehanne tried to protect you from being killed by Raphael and the Circle of Shalomon’s ambition?”

“Aye.”

“And she did, didn’t she?” Lianne mused. “She sent aid because you left a note for her that day telling her what we were about.”

I nodded. “Raphael had made me swear not to speak of the matter, so I didn’t. It took me a while to find the loophole.”

Lianne eyed me. “Most sensible folk would simply have broken their oath.”

“I swore by the sacred oath of the Maghuin Dhonn,” I said simply. I touched my chest. “If I had broken it, my diadh-anam would have been extinguished forever, and I would no longer be Her child.”

“You and your bear-goddess,” she said, but the words were uttered in an amiable enough tone. “Well, assuming your dreams are indeed true ones, I suppose you’ll find out what unfinished business lies between you and Raphael when Prince Thierry’s party returns in the spring.”

“I was surprised to learn that he went,” I said. “Raphael lost both his parents in a boating accident. I wouldn’t have thought he’d embark on such a long, dangerous sea voyage.”

Lianne shrugged. “I told you, he was a broken man after Jehanne’s death. When his sister Eleanore succumbed to illness a year later, I suspect it was the final straw. Raphael de Mereliot didn’t care if he lived or died. As I heard it, when Prince Thierry asked him to accompany the expedition as their official physician, he accepted it without hesitating.”

“Anything to flee his sorrow,” I murmured.

“I suspect so.”

We sat a while longer in silence together with our memories. “I don’t want to hurt him,” I said eventually. “Raphael’s been hurt too much already. He’s made mistakes, aye, but fate’s dealt him cruel blows in turn. I wish I knew what this was about.”

The former King’s Poet met my gaze, a furrow of concern etched between her brows. “If it is a piece of Focalor’s spirit inside him… Moirin, what in the name of Blessed Elua and his Companions will you do?”

I lifted my tea-cup and drained the dregs, peering at the leaves plastered to the bottom of the cup, turning it this way and that, and finding no answers there. “Truly? I haven’t the faintest idea.”

She gave another wry smile. “Well, that’s comforting.”

SEVENTEEN

That night, Bao and I dined with the Shahrizai.

It seemed that for Balthasar Shahrizai, a few friends meant a few members of his notorious and notoriously close-knit family.

There was his uncle, Gamaliel, a laconic fellow with a predator’s hooded gaze; and his oh-so-quiet wife, Mariette. There was his cousin, their daughter Josephine, high-spirited and flirtatious, although it was the kind of flirting that carried a sharply honed edge. Somewhat about her put me in mind of Jagrati, only it was a Jagrati filled with playful malice instead of banked rage.

And then there was Balthasar’s great-aunt Celestine, the matriarch of House Shahrizai in the City of Elua, with her long silver hair confined in an elaborate chignon, ivory skin like wrinkled parchment stretched over elegant bones, and dark blue, blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing.

She smiled with genuine pleasure upon being introduced to Bao. “Oh, you’re an interesting one, aren’t you?”

Bao smiled back at her, his expression serene. “Am I?”

Celestine Shahrizai patted his cheek. “You’re not afraid of much, are you?”

He raised his brows. “Should I be?”

“Most people are,” Josephine remarked, approaching to give him the kiss of greeting, drawing back and flicking her tongue over her lips as though to evaluate the taste of him. “It’s always… interesting… to meet someone who isn’t.”

“Told you so,” Balthasar offered.

She glanced at him under her lashes. “So you did, cousin mine.”

I cleared my throat.

“Lady Moirin,” Gamaliel Shahrizai said smoothly, offering me a courtly bow before giving me the kiss of greeting. “We’ve heard so much about you. ’Tis a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“I’m honored, my lord,” I said politely. “I wasn’t aware I’d been the topic of so much discussion.”

He looked amused. “Certainly of late.”

We sat to dine. I had been assured by both Lianne Tremaine and Noémie d’Etoile that the supper-club to which Balthasar Shahrizai had invited us was a very fine, very exclusive establishment.

By all appearances, it lived up to its reputation. The dining room had an enormous crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room, lit with fresh tapers, and there was a matching candelabra on each of the four tables. Cloths of rich silk damask in muted golden hues and intricate patterns covered each table, and the tables were placed so that all the diners could see one another, but far enough away that one could speak without being readily overheard. Even so, folk spoke in low tones, the atmosphere well nigh as solemn and hushed as a temple.

I was seated between Balthasar and Gamaliel, who made desultory small talk as the first course of pigeons baked in pastry was served, pointing out various peers among the other diners. “That’s the Marquise de Perigord,” Balthasar said with a discreet nod at an attractive blonde woman in a complicated gown, surrounded by admiring suitors. “A recent widow, and a wealthy one. Since her husband’s death, she’s become quite a figure in society.”

I recognized Marc de Thibideau among her suitors. He caught my eye, and quickly glanced away. “Are you saying she’s someone we should court as an ally?”

Gamaliel Shahrizai wagged a finger at me. “Ah, now, Lady Moirin! We try not to be so… obvious… with our counsel. You’ve been away for some years. We merely point out persons of interest.”