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along the coast of Azzalle, no one remembers more. A bargain was struck with the Master of the Straits, a price was paid. The mystery of the Master of the Straits, eight hundred years old, endures. An apprentice was taken; the cycle continues unbroken. About me, they tell stories, because I remained, scarlet mote and all, to become the Comtesse de Montrève, the Queen’s confidante, the most famous of Naamah’s Servants in many generations, who stood upon a balcony in the Temple of Asherat and denounced a vast conspiracy.
    Of Hyacinthe-of his quick grin and his irrepressible charm, of his knack with horses and his gift of the dromonde -of Hyacinthe, the poets do not sing.
    One day, I thought, they will.
    I hoped Hyacinthe could still laugh when they did.

Ninety
    IT WAS snowing the day we sighted the white walls of the City of Elua.
    Our Serenissiman escorts insisted on seeing us into the city, although I would have dismissed them earlier. “Ah, no, lady,” their leader said cheerfully. “Lord Ricciardo paid us to see you home, and it’s home we will see you, to your doorstep and no less.”
    The sky was leaden, flakes of snow drifting aimlessly to lie without accumulating on the frozen earth. In the vineyards, the grape vines were desiccated tangles of brown along the fences. At the southern gate, a pair of guards in City livery traded places, sharing a charcoal brazier, stripping off their gloves to warm their chilled hands. The rest were lurking in the garrison.
    Joscelin rode forward to announce us. “The Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève returns,” he said in his most inflectionless voice.
    There was a brief, stunned silence.
    “My lady!” One of the guards stepped forward, bowing low. “Welcome home.”
    “Thank you.” I gazed through the gate, at the familiar streets that lay beyond, the elegant architecture in perfect scale to its surroundings. People strolled the streets, swathed in warm cloaks against the chill, laughing and remarking on the snow. A smart carriage drawn by a pair of matched bays passed; I knew the arms emblazoned on the door, the silver harrow of the Marquis d’Arguil. He had chided Joscelin and me for failing to attend their cherry-blossom fête when last I had seen him, and begged us to attend their next gathering. It seemed a very long time ago. “My lord guardsman,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “Pray send word to her majesty Queen Ysandre that I have returned. We will go now to my home, and thence to the Palace forthwith to attend upon her pleasure.”
    “My lady.” He bowed again; his tone had changed. He had seen Imriel. Like the border-guard, he guessed. “It will be done.”
    “These men,” I said, indicating our Serenissiman escort, “are in the service of Lord Ricciardo Stregazza of La Serenissima, and due free passage in the City in accordance with our alliance.”
    “It is granted.” He stepped aside to allow us through, watching and wondering. Half the garrison turned out to watch as we entered the gates; the other half crowded in the doorway of the gatehouse, fighting for exit.
    Hearing the whispers, Imriel drew up the hood of his cloak and lowered his head.
    “You have nothing to hide,” I told him.
    He glanced at me from under the shadow of his hood and said nothing, but his bare knuckles were white on the reins.
    Behind us, I heard the sound of a mounted guardsman pelting for the Palace.
    Joscelin took the lead as we rode through the City of Elua, unperturbed by the whispers. They recognized him, of course. No one else who is not a sworn member of the Cassiline Brotherhood would dare wear the arms-the vambraces glinting steel beneath his sleeves, the twin daggers at his hips, the hilt of his sword riding over his shoulder. And they knew me. Imriel was a slight figure, shrouded and hooded. Our Serenissiman guards pressed close around us, glowering, and I was glad they had stayed.
    The whispers followed us. “Phèdre,” I heard, my name spoken as in my dream. “Phèdre.” And as in my dream, we retraced our journey, step by step, winding our way through the City of Elua in a slow and stately pavane.
    In the narrow courtyard outside my house, my stable-keeper Benoit dropped his jaw to see us, a pair of buckets swinging from a yolk across his shoulders.
    “Benoit,” I said. “We are back. Will you prepare a stall-”
    That was as far as I got before the door opened and a young man burst through it, with ruddy cheeks and shoulders