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Hyacinthe, I didn’t tell the whole of it.
    We told him of Jebe-Barkal, after, and the strangeness that was Saba, in all its attendant terrors and glories, the long effort of our voyage on the Lake of Tears, the awe that befell me upon Kapporeth and the Ark of Broken Tablets. And we spoke of the One God, of Yeshuites and the Children of Yisra-el, of Rahab and the Master of the Straits, of Blessed Elua and his Companions, and where their intertwined paths diverged. At some point, a weary Joscelin rose to bid me goodnight, his lips gentle on my cheek. I let him go, and remained awake long hours with Hyacinthe, the both of us quarreling over pronunciation and origins, tracing inadequate ciphers in the lees of our cordial on the tabletop, arguing the Name of God and the alphabet of heaven.
    I don’t know when I forgot his sea-shifting eyes and he ceased to be the Master of the Straits and became only Hyacinthe once more, my oldest friend, stubborn and clever as my lord Delaunay; as I myself had grown, truth be told.
    Somewhere.
    We knew, both of us. Hyacinthe bent his head and smiled ruefully, passing one hand over the marble table, the marks of our finger-drawn scribbling erasing with its passage. “I’ll do as you asked,” he said, hanging ringlets hiding his face. “The alphabet shall be yours, once ... once we’re established in Alba.”
    An unexpected pain seared my heart. “You and Sibeal.”
    He nodded without looking up. “She sees you in my dreams, you know,” he murmured. “She understands.”
    “When will you go?”
    “A month.” He did look up, then, and the Tsingano lad I’d loved looked out of his eyes. “Six weeks, mayhap. No longer.”
    “Will you go as you came here?” I asked, hating the thought of it. “A mist-wrought shadow crossing the land, your passage unmarked by man nor beast?”
    “Mayhap.” Hyacinthe shrugged. “’Tis simpler, thus. Does it matter?”
    “Yes,” I said. I had an idea. “Yes, it does.”
    Hyacinthe left in the morning, when the early mists still rose from the fields, blending to surround him and shroud his figure as he departed. My household rose to see him off, watching his mounted form vanish into his surroundings, as the night’s rain dripped from the olives and the silvery-green leaves sighed at his passing.
    “What are you plotting now ?” Joscelin inquired, reading my expression with the ease of one who’d had long practice at it.
    “Nothing,” I said, then amended it. “A fête. I’m planning a fête.”

One Hundred Two
    THEY ARE still talking of it in the City of Elua.
    If it had not been for the aid of a good many people, I daresay I could not have pulled it off; and foremost among them is my old mentor, Cecilie Laveau-Perrin, who gave me invaluable advice. There was my factor, Jacques Brenin, who negotiated the sale of various texts, without which I could not have afforded this endeavor. It was his idea, too, to solicit donations from the many lords and ladies who courted my favor, in the name of honoring the Master of the Straits.
    Of a surety, I needed Emile’s aid, and that I knew I had. Where he led, Night’s Doorstep followed. Hyacinthe’s return had only augmented that. And for once, the City would follow the lead of Night’s Doorstep instead of the Palace.
    That was my tribute to Hyacinthe.
    While I have lived, only one thing has brought the City of Elua to a standstill. Fever did not do it, so I am told; I was in Skaldia when it struck. Even Waldemar Selig’s invasion did not do it, for he never got this far south. The City halted, they say, when Percy de Somerville assailed its walls, and Ysandre’s uncle, Barquiel L’Envers, sealed the gates against him. It halted for a day, they say, before wagering resumed and the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers reopened its doors.
    Well and so; it halted for my fête.
    I took my time making ready that night; an autumn night, unseasonably warm, winter’s chill held in abeyance. Joscelin came into my bathing-room, which was the one chamber of my household I held sacrosanct. He grinned to see me sunk neck-deep in warm water and scented oils. My maid-servant Clory, Eugenie’s niece, retreated blushing at his approach.
    “It smells like a hot-house in here,” Joscelin said, perching on the edge of the tub and dabbling his fingers in the scented waters.
    “So?” I raised my brows. “Would you rather we were in Montrève, smelling of sheep?”
    “Not exactly.” Joscelin eyed me.