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he held the reins in check, gold torque gleaming at his throat. At his side, Ysandre shone like a flame, tall and bright, a rare awe in her face at the outpouring of love that greeted them. There was no need for the armed escort that surrounded them; the populace of the City adored them.
    “They came,” Imriel whispered. “I didn’t think they would.”
    “Neither did I,” I whispered in reply.
    Behind them in the chariot stood Sibeal and Hyacinthe. She was wide-eyed at the scope of their welcome, startled and grave, holding his hand.
    And Hyacinthe ...
    “You did this,” he said softly as I came alongside the chariot, Imri beside me and Joscelin a protective step behind us. Somewhere, they had begun chanting his name again. Hy-a-cinthe! Hy-a-cinthe! His name; my signale . I had only spoken it once. “Why?”
    I gripped the edges of the chariot and gazed up at him. “I wanted to say good-bye.”
    Someone-a daring bit-player from a disreputable theatre troupe-made his way to the chariot, offering a tankard of wine with a bow and a toast to Drustan, who accepted it with a laugh and drank deep before passing it to his Queen. It might have been poisoned, for all they knew. Ysandre poured a propitiatory drop before drinking and the revelers shouted approval, a dozen other hands thrusting forth cups and tankards.
    D’Angelines, Tsingani; there were even Yeshuites among them.
    “Mont Nuit!” someone else cried, pointing. “Look!”
    From the heights of the hill of Mont Nuit, where the Thirteen Houses of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers were clustered, a torchlit procession was winding toward Night’s Doorstep. All of them ... all . I caught my breath to see it. The Night Court had closed its doors. In tribute, they came, in celebration. All of the Servants of Naamah. And Cereus House, that is first and eldest among them, led the way, fragile and beautiful, while the madcap adepts of Eglantine House followed close behind, singing and playing, the tumblers throwing somersaults as they went. Ah, Elua! They were all there: modest Alyssum, gentle Balm, proud Dahlia, dreaming Gentian, merry Orchis, adoring Heliotrope, shrewd Bryony, perfect Camellia, sensuous Jasmine, my own mother’s House, and yes-Mandrake too, with its delightful wickedness, and Valerian in all its sweet yielding. And they entered the fête like a stream mingling its waters with a mighty river.
    “Did you plan this?” Hyacinthe asked. His voice was shaking.
    “No.” So was mine. “This was a gift.”
    “Oh, Phèdre!” The tears shone bright in his eyes; his changeable eyes, still Hyacinthe’s beneath it all, my Prince of Travellers. “I will miss you so. I’ll miss this all.”
    An Eglantine tumbler, fresh-faced and merry, evaded the guard and darted onto the chariot to steal a kiss from a laughing Drustan mab Necthana, looping a green ribbon about his neck. Once, in this very spot, a troupe of Eglantine adepts had tormented Joscelin, while Hyacinthe and I had stood atop empty wine-casks and watched, stifling our mirth. The tumbler snatched Ysandre’s hand and planted a kiss on it, somersaulting backward off the chariot before the Queen’s Guard could stop her. Ysandre was laughing. I saw in the vanguard behind her Duc Barquiel L’Envers, his eyes narrowed with calculating amusement. He saw me watching and saluted. The Dowayne of Orchis House coaxed a Tsingano fiddler into playing a lively tune. Emile’s voice was audible above the crowd, roaring about somewhat. No one paid him any heed.
    “Miss us later,” I said to Hyacinthe. “Tonight is for you.”
    He nodded, understanding. “Thank you.”
    Good-bye, I said, only the words came out, “You’re welcome.”
    And the fête, my fête, continued, all throughout the City of Elua. It went long into the small hours of the night, and many stories are told of it, for the City had never seen its like. There was joy in it, and sorrow, for it was celebration and farewell alike. On the morrow, there would be sore heads aplenty, and I would worry anew about Imriel’s safety and wonder what message was coded in Barquiel L’Enver’s mocking salute, and how long Melisande would remain complacent in the Temple of Asherat-of-the-Sea.
    For now, this was enough.
    If I did not have everything, I had enough. I had my household to sustain me-there was Eugenie, wading into the fray and hoisting her skirts to dance, unexpectedly nimble. I had the regard of the Cruarch of Alba, whom I