“Mayhap you should speak to the King about your concerns,” my father suggested.
I blinked. “Me? Ah, gods! I’d rather not intrude further on his grief.”
He regarded me somberly. “You may be the only person in the world who can do so with impunity, Moirin. I heard about this morning’s display.”
“I’ll think on it.”
“Do,” the Duc agreed, rising from his chair. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ve a great deal to do, and I believe you’ve a letter to write.”
“Oh, yes.” I rose, too. “Thank you again, my lord.”
“Rogier,” he repeated with a pleasant smile. “When I’ve more time, I’ll ask you for the whole of your Vralian tale. Were you there, too?” he asked Bao.
Bao stretched out his arms, contemplating the zig-zag tattoos that marked them. “No,” he said darkly. “I wish I had been. But no.”
My father shuddered. “You’ll want to hear the whole of their tale someday,” he said to Rogier Courcel. “Trust me, it’s one to daunt the poets.”
The Lord Minister of the realm inclined his head toward us. “I look forward to it.”
With that, we were dismissed.
Since there was no word from King Daniel, Bao and I returned to the Temple of Naamah. This journey through the streets of the City of Elua was markedly different. Word of the King’s absolution and embrace of me had spread, and the gazes that followed us were more curious than suspicious. I felt all the more grateful for his generosity, and all the more uneasy at the notion of presuming to tell him how his daughter ought to be raised.
“Why?” Bao asked when I voiced my reluctance. “Don’t you think he might be glad of it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s just so terribly sad. I hate to add to his burden.”
He shook his head. “If he’s a man, he will bear it. You heard him this morning. He knows he’s neglected the child. If you ask me, he was very nearly begging for your assistance.”
“Do you think so?”
Bao gave me one of his rare, utterly sincere smiles. “Yes, Moirin. I do. I think the King recognizes that you have a very, very large heart, and that he hopes you will make a place for his little stormcloud of a daughter in it.”
“You, too,” I said. “You liked her, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he admitted.
At the temple, I begged paper, ink, and a pen of Noémie d’Etoile, who granted my request readily and showed me to the study, which was filled with texts dedicated to the arts of love and pleasure.
There, I did my best to concentrate on writing a letter to my mother, while Bao perused the shelves and cubbies. Although he could not yet read the western alphabet, many of the volumes were illustrated. There were at least a dozen different versions of the Trois Milles Joies alone.
“Have you ever read this?” Bao demanded.
“Aye, I have.” With a twinge of sorrow, I remembered how Jehanne had sent a volume to me after our first liaison at Cereus House.
“Look at this.” He showed me a print titled The Wheel-Barrow. “Have you ever tried it?”
“No.”
He studied it from all angles. “We should.”
“Bao, I’m writing to my mother!”
He flashed me an unapologetic grin. “All right, all right! Later, huh?”
I plucked the tome from his hands. “Later, yes.”
In the end, after long hours of agonizing, I made my letter a simple one. I wrote that I had returned to Terre d’Ange well and safe. I wrote that I had many adventures to tell, and that the Maghuin Dhonn Herself had done right in sending Her child so very, very far away. I wrote that I hoped to return to Alba in the spring, after Prince Thierry’s expedition came home.
I wrote that I loved her.
No matter how far I went, mother mine, I never ceased to think of you and miss you. I hope you are well, and Oengus and Mabon and all our kin, too.
I wept a bit.
Bao looked over my shoulder. “Did you tell her about me?”
“I did.” I traced a line of text with my finger, reading the words aloud. “It may surprise you to learn I have wed. I will bring my husband, Bao, when I come. He is exceedingly insolent, boastful, and arrogant, and I love him very much. I think you will like him.”
He pursed his lips. “You think so?”
I laughed through my tears. “I do.”
I folded my letter carefully, placing it in a vellum envelope. I addressed it to my mother in care of the Lady of Clunderry, as she had bade me so very, very long ago. I lit a taper, and sealed it with a careful blot of wax, pressing the signet ring my mother had given me into the hot wax.
A young, obliging priest offered to carry it to the Palace for me.
Off it went.
Bao cocked his head at me, waiting.
“Oh, fine,” I said. “Let’s try it.”
EIGHT
The Wheel-Barrow was a vigorous position, requiring a certain athleticism on the part of both participants. I wasn’t sure if I cared to repeat it, but it was an interesting experiment, and it tired me enough so that I slept soundly and late.
I awoke to find that the King’s absolution of me had further repercussions. Noémie d’Etoile presented Bao and me with a stack of engraved cards printed on thick, expensive paper.
“What are these?” I asked in bewilderment.
“Calling cards,” Noémie said. “It’s become quite the fashion in the past few years. These were left by all the people who came to pay you a visit this morning.”
I flipped through the cards, glancing at the names engraved on them. “But I don’t even know these people!”
She smiled. “Well, it seems they wish to make your acquaintance.”
“Do I have to meet all of them?” I asked in dismay.
“ ’Tis your choice,” Noémie said. “No doubt most of them seek to curry favor since the King’s embraced you and your father has a certain amount of influence with the Lord Minister. Are there none you would call a friend from your time here in the City before?”
“Prince Thierry was the closest thing to a friend I had here,” I said absently. “And he’s on the far side of the world.”
“Didn’t you bed him?” Bao commented.
“Only the once! And we made our peace with it. There’s no one—” I turned over another card. “Oh.”
“Someone you know?”
“Aye.” I gazed at Lianne Tremaine’s name, surrounded by a printed wreath of delicate blossoms. “She was the King’s Poet once—the youngest ever appointed. And she was a member of the Circle of Shalomon.”
“The demon-summoners?” Bao asked.
I nodded, glancing at Noémie. “You must have known.”
“I did.” Her expression remained serene. “People make mistakes, Moirin. Sometimes they learn from them. I believe Lianne Tremaine has done so. She’s fallen far from her days of glory.” Leaning over, she tapped the card. “Those are eglantine blossoms. Since the King dismissed her from her post, she’s taken a position at Eglantine House.”
It surprised me. “As a Servant of Naamah?”
“No, no.” Noémie shook her head. “As a tutor to their young poets, although it’s also true that many patrons commission her to write poems on their behalf. Whatever else may be true, her talent is undeniable.”
Bao examined the card. “You should see her, Moirin.”
“Why?” My memories of Lianne Tremaine weren’t particularly fond ones.
He gave me one of his shrewd looks. “You and she, you made the same mistake.”
“I didn’t want to!” I protested.
Bao shrugged. “But you did it. Maybe you can learn from each other. Maybe she knows something about that idiot Lord Raphael that can help you figure out what unfinished business you have together.”
“You have an irksome habit of being right,” I observed. “My lady Noémie, was there any word from his majesty?”
“No,” she said. “Were you expecting it?”
“I’m not sure what I expected,” I admitted.
“Let’s go call on the little princess,” Bao suggested. “Afterward, you can decide what you want to do about this.” He flicked Lianne Tremaine’s card with one finger. “And the King.”
“Do you think we should return so soon?” I asked.
He nodded. “We promised her. Soon never comes soon enough to a young child. And I think that one has been disappointed many, many times before. Let her see that we mean to keep our promise.”
I smiled at him. “You’re uncommonly sensitive when it comes to children, my bad boy. All right, then. Let’s go.”
Once again, Bao was right.
Upon presenting ourselves at the royal nursery, we were confronted by the stony-faced nursemaid Nathalie Simon. “You’re interrupting her highness’ morning lesson,” she informed us.
“Do you mean to forbid us entry?” I inquired.
Bao favored her with one of his most charming smiles. “We’ll be only a minute, my lady.”
Grudgingly, she admitted us.
Desirée and her tutor were seated in undersized chairs in a sunlit corner of the chamber, heads bowed over a slate of sliding alphabet blocks. I paused, listening to the sound of her childish voice chanting the alphabet.
“Ah… Bay… Cey…”
“You’ve guests, young highness,” Nathalie announced in a hard tone.
Desirée’s silver-gilt head lifted, and a dazzling smile dawned on her face. “You came!”
“Of course!” Bao scoffed. “Did you think we wouldn’t?” With careless grace, he crossed the room and sank to sit cross-legged beside her, peering at the slate of blocks. “So these are D’Angeline letters, huh? Maybe you can teach them to me.”
Her fair brow furrowed. “Are you mocking?”
Bao shook his head. “No. In Ch’in, we write differently.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “We just do.”
Watching them, I couldn’t help but smile. Desirée’s tutor rose, her expression caught somewhere between respect and defiance.
“Lady Moirin, I believe?” She made a reluctant curtsy, bobbing her head. “I’d heard you’d taken an interest in the child.”
“So I have,” I said calmly.
“She’s bright, very bright.” Her chin rose. “I’ll not apologize for teaching her beyond her years.”
“Nor should you,” I agreed. “What’s your name?”
“Aimée Girard.”
A thought came to me as I watched Desirée earnestly teaching the alphabet to Bao. “Do you suppose you might take on a second pupil, my lady?”
“You’re serious?”
I nodded. “Bao, what do you think of the notion?”
He glanced up. “I think I would like to read the names written on these calling cards we are receiving.” A grin crossed his face. “Not to mention what is written in the very interesting books in the temple’s library.”
Aimée Girard flushed. “Ah… well. You understand we will be reading only very, very simple texts?”
“Yes, of course.” With one finger, Bao pushed blocks around on the slate. “Would you like me to study with you, your highness?”
Desirée’s expression was dubious. “You’re not mocking?”
“No.” His voice was solemn. “I promise.”
“Then I would like it very much,” she said decisively. “Can Bao stay, mademoiselle?”
“Will you be on your best behavior if I say yes?” her tutor inquired. The child nodded vigorously. “Very well, then.” She smiled. “Messire Bao, it seems we have an arrangement.”
I smiled, too. “Then I will leave you to it, and return in a while.”
Desirée rose and gave me an unexpected hug, her small arms tight around my legs. “Thank you for coming,” she said in a muffled tone, loosing me as unexpectedly as she’d embraced me. “And for bringing Bao.”
“Of course, dear heart.” I bowed to her in the Bhodistani manner.
With a giggle, she returned the bow, and then sat back down on her little chair, arranging her hands in a contemplative mudra. “See! I remember.”
“So you do!” I clapped. “Very well done, your highness.”
The nursemaid Nathalie escorted me to the door, every line of her body expressing disapproval. “Do you imagine his majesty will be pleased to hear you’re teaching the child heathen prayers, and now setting strange foreigners to study with her?” she asked in a low voice.
“I imagine he’ll be pleased to know his royal daughter is learning about other cultures,” I said evenly. “Ancient, venerable cultures. And I would thank you not to speak of my husband as a strange foreigner.”
“It’s unsuitable!” Her face hardened. “He made a jest about reading texts from the Temple of Naamah in her very presence!”
“That was ill advised,” I agreed. “But it was a jest the child is too young to grasp. I’ll speak to him about it.”
It didn’t placate her. With a look of unmitigated disgust, she flung the nursery door open, startling a young page in House Courcel’s blue livery, who was lounging in the hallway.
