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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 considered 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