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one put the words to it. I learned he had been proud and kind and a little wild. I heard the story of his disappearance a dozen times over, and while the details varied slightly in the telling, the events remained unchanged. If their stories had been identical, I would have been suspicious. So it had been, when I had questioned the missing guardsmen of Troyes-le-Mont, who had concealed the fearful secret that Percy de Somerville had helped Melisande escape from that fortress. Ten years ago, in La Serenissima, the sameness of their story had given the lie to it. Here, it was obvious the denizens of the sanctuary were telling the unhappy truth.
    From Brother Othon, the young priest, I learned how they had searched the mountains for days on end, finding no trace of the boy. Born and bred to Landras village, he had led the search himself, and his grief at his failure was writ clear on his features.
    “How certain are you, Brother Othon?” Joscelin asked him in a gentle tone. “I do not fault your diligence, but the mountains are vast. I am Siovalese myself, and I know there are nooks and crannies of my childhood home of Verreuil that not even my brother Luc and I managed to explore.”
    “It is possible.” The priest turned his failure-haunted gaze on him. “It is always possible. I still search, thinking to find his body lodged in some crevice where the lingering snows of spring have retreated at last, hoping to find him. But if he went of his own accord ...” He shook his head. “He may have gone for days before harm befell him. We were slow in widening our search, sure that he was near. I cannot say.”
    And so I listened, and grew no wiser. They knew who we were, of course, priests and acolytes alike. I saw it in the sidelong glances, heard it in the hushed murmurs when they thought I was not listening. They are learned folk, Elua’s priesthood; they knew well enough that Phèdre nó Delaunay was Kushiel’s Chosen, the Queen’s confidante. If they had not known before that their Imri was Imriel de la Courcel, son of Melisande Shahrizai, I daresay most of them had guessed it by now. But here, in Elua’s sanctuary, no one spoke of it. And that, I thought, was wrong. Their silence was a canker of omission, blighting the serenity of this sacred place.
    The only exception was the young acolyte Liliane, whose sweet smile fell like sunlight on all it touched; Liliane, and the children. I spoke to the latter after we had dined, when the wards of the sanctuary would have taken their studies in the library halls.
    “The Lady Phèdre and her consort Joscelin want to hear about Imri,” was all Brother Selbert told them before leaving us alone.
    “Why?” the lad Cadmar asked bluntly when he had left, eyeing me with all the dour suspicion of his twelve years. “Who are you?”
    “I am a friend of the Queen’s,” I said.
    “The Queen cares what happened to Imri?” It was the girl Beryl who spoke, her voice sharp with disbelief. I looked gravely at her. She was the eldest among them by a year, budding into young womanhood, with black hair as fine and straight as silk, the tender beginnings of breasts and green eyes that held only scorn. I wondered if she was Brother Selbert’s get. It was not uncommon for priest’s children to end as wards of their sanctuary.
    “Yes,” I said. “She does.”
    The child Honore had clambered onto Joscelin’s knee. He held her loosely, looking amused; I swear, I do not know why children adore him so. Most adults have the sense to find him distant and off-putting. “Imri taught me to climb trees,” Honore announced, settling herself with a proprietary bounce. “He got me honey after Beryl told him not to. He was stung seventeen times and Sister Philippa put mud all over him.”
    “Be quiet, Honore,” Cadmar muttered. “The lady doesn’t care about that.”
    “Why not?” I asked, leaning forward and propping my chin on my hands. “I like honey. And I want to hear about Imriel.”
    “Imriel,” Honore sang, bouncing on Joscelin’s knee. “Im-ri-el! He made Cadmar angry, because he said he liked Beryl. Cad-mar likes Ber-yl!”
    “Be quiet!” The lad flushed red to the roots of his fiery hair.
    “Is this real?” Sturdy little Ti-Michel stretched his arms above his head to tug at the hilt of Joscelin’s sword. “Can I see it?”
    “Hush.” Joscelin drew him onto his other knee, holding both of the young ones in place. “I’ll show you later, if you like.