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age transmuting it into wine, the oaken cask that warded it whispering of a tree’s immense lifetime and the bite of the axe that made an end to it.
    “You see.” He poured a second glass and held it aloft, regarding it. “So much does it take to make a glass of wine.”
    “My lord.” I set down my glass, wincing as my gown drew taut across my shoulders. “Do you seek to lesson me?”
    “No.” Michel Nevers smiled, unexpected and kind. “Only to remind you that, like the grape, we do not know to what end our brief lives will be transformed. You no longer wish to be an anguissette ?”
    “I am afraid.” I folded my hands in my lap and met his gaze squarely. “My path lies in darkness, and Kushiel’s Dart pricks me to unwanted desires. I wound my beloved with every choice I make, every breath I draw. Yes, my lord priest; I wish Kushiel would choose another. Have I not served him well? I have sworn this quest on my own honor, to free one who was a friend to me. Is it not enough? Must I be goaded every step of the way?”
    He bowed his head, iron-grey hair falling over his brow. “You speak of Melisande Shahrizai.”
    “Yes.”
    “Phèdre.” The priest raised his hand. “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply that such was your lot. Why you?” He shook his head. “I cannot say. We may spend many lifetimes upon the wheel of life before Blessed Elua admits us through the gates into the true Terre d’Ange-that-lies-beyond. Mayhap Kushiel in his infinite mercy allows you to atone for some crime that cannot be spoken. I do not know. I know only that he has chosen wisely, and if his touch lingers, his work is not yet done.” Stooping, he kissed my brow with lips surprisingly gentle. “Kushiel’s Chosen, Naamah’s Servant. You bear the marks of both, and both you have served truly and well. Do not forget, they are merely the Companions of Blessed Elua, in whose bright shadow all of us follow-even Cassiel.”
    “It is hard, my lord,” I whispered.
    “Yes.” Michel Nevers nodded, and I saw in his gaze something resembling infinite compassion. “It is.”
    Thus, then, my visit to the temple of Kushiel, and if I left it no wiser, at least I left it oddly comforted, both by the priest’s words, and by the penance I had endured. The aftermath of pain left me calm and clear-headed. Although the yearning had not gone-it never left me completely-the tempest induced by my encounter with Melisande had subsided.
    Joscelin tended to me that night, massaging unguent into the fresh weals. I lay content beneath his hands, enjoying the sensation, my head pillowed on my arms.
    “All of this in love’s name,” he mused. “I don’t pretend to understand it, Phèdre.”
    “No,” I murmured, heavy-lidded. The unguent stung where the lash had broken skin. It felt good. “But you were right to send me.”
    “I know. I ought to, by now. How you and I ever survived one another is a mystery.” In his voice was a fondness and humor no one else could ever comprehend save we two, whose love must surely make Blessed Elua smile. “Ah, well. You’ll need to see the marquist, love.” His fingertips traced a welt where it crossed the etched lines of my marque. “It will need retouching. Here,” his fingers moved, “and here.”
    I shuddered under his touch, that transmuted pain into yearning. If we were ill-suited in the manifestations of our desires, still, there was an especial torment in knowing it, in the need to steal bliss by illicit means. Feeling my body grow languid with desire, I breathed his name, half-laughing as it caught in my throat. “Joscelin ...”
    “Do you want... ?” Joscelin whispered, one hand sliding over the curve of my buttocks.
    “Yes.” Rolling over, I drew him down to me. “Oh, yes.”

Twelve
    IN THE morning, I steeled my courage and presented myself at court.
    I did not think Ysandre would welcome our news, and I was right. Her face went white and she paced the drawing-room like an angry lioness, lips moving in silent imprecations. Joscelin stood a step nearer to me than was his wont in the royal presence, and I was glad Drustan and Sibeal were there.
    The annals of history will not show that Ysandre de la Courcel had a fierce temper. I have seldom seen her loose it unguarded, and never without provocation. It was a measure of her trust that she permitted herself to display it before us.
    Nonetheless, it made me nervous.
    “Who?” she demanded, halting with arms akimbo. “Who