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Meroë, as interpreted by Favrielle. It spoke to our journey; the best parts of our long journey. And so I wore a Jebean gown in the blood-at-midnight color of sangoire , which only I, as the sole anguissette in living memory, was entitled to wear. It left my shoulders bare and wrapped tight about my body, fastened with gold pins shaped like cunning darts. I wore my hair in a coronet of braids, the finial of my marque vivid at the nape of my neck, and ivory and gold bangles-another gift of Ras Lijasu-adorned my wrists.
    And if I wore a single ivory hairpin thrust through my braids, who was to ask why?
    Oh yes, I had kept it. Kaneka’s hairpin, one of a pair. I’d left its mate in Daršanga, piercing the Mahrkagir’s heart. Never forget; even here, even now. I kept it, as I kept the jade statue of the dog with staring eyes, that I might always remember. He had trusted me, the Mahrkagir. Even as he’d drawn the cord taut about my throat, gazing at me with love for the gift he thought I’d given him, he had trusted me. And I had murdered him for it.
    I remembered. And I reckoned it worth the price.
    Imriel, mercifully, had begun to forget; at least a little bit. Although he had them still, his nightmares came fewer and farther between. Elua knows, I was grateful for it. He wore his Jebean finery, too; had insisted upon it. I let him. The snow-white chamma and breeches, the short, embroidered cloak-let him wear them. In six months’ time, they wouldn’t fit. He wore his rhinoceros-hide belt, too, the one Ras Lijasu had given him. There was room to grow in that gift. His face was bright with excitement, and it made my heart ache to see him so happy.
    A cordon of young Siovalese guardsmen in the livery of Montrève surrounded our carriage, chattering among themselves, remembering to maintain vigilance under Ti-Philippe’s watchful eye. Our arrival was greeted with cheers, for casks had been breached and the streets of Night’s Doorstep were already lively with mirth. Although it is one of the tawdriest quarters of the City, it looked beautiful that night, ablaze with light and merriment. Emile greeted us in the street in front of the Cockerel, sweating in an ostentatious velvet doublet as he bowed.
    “Comtesse!” he cried, spreading his arms wide as he straightened. “Kushiel’s Chosen, Delaunay’s anguissette ! Welcome to your fête.”
    It was a glorious thing. I may say so, even if I instigated it, for the sum of its parts was greater than aught I had conceived. A good many noble peers were there already, D’Angeline lords and ladies, clad in fine silks and damasks, glittering with jewels as they mingled with tavern-keepers, merchants and workers of all ilk, delighted at the novelty of it. Some of the more adventurous had been to Night’s Doorstep before, titillated by its seedy charms, amusing themselves en route to and from the Houses of the Night Court; many had never been. None would have thought to hold a fête there.
    They thought it clever and daring of me, telling me so as I circulated among them, exchanging greetings. Let them. I had done it because it was Hyacinthe’s home, and my sanctuary. It didn’t matter what they believed, only that they celebrated. And that they did, with a will. The wine was heady and rich on the tongue; I had spared no expense in importing it from Namarre, not trusting to Emile’s rot-gut. Musicians played set after set, trading places, and a group of Tsingani fiddlers drew the loudest applause. Squares were cleared for dancing, and nobles and commonfolk elbowed one another to make room, silk gowns brushing breeches of rough fustian. Hired servants flushed and merry from sampling the wine made their way through the crowds, bearing trays of offerings from a half-dozen countries: spicy Aragonian shrimp, Menekhetan kabobs, rice rolled in Hellene grape-leaves, honeyed Akkadian pastries, dollops of Jebean stew on spongy flatbread; too many things to count.
    It was a good hour before the guest of honor arrived, and when he did, all of Night’s Doorstep fell silent, for Hyacinthe didn’t come alone. We heard them coming nearly half the way from the Palace, by the cheering that followed in their wake. I don’t think the ruling monarch of Terre d’Ange has ever deigned to visit Night’s Doorstep. I know for a surety the Cruarch of Alba has not.
    They arrived in a ceremonial Alban chariot, and Drustan mab Necthana himself drove it, the muscles in his forearms working as