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of the better inns near the bustling harbor. Luc, who spoke fluent Aragonian, negotiated for our rooms. I understand the tongue, a little-it is a variant of Caerdicci, fluid and melodious, with lengthened vowels and a softly lisped ‘s’ sound-but I am ashamed to say I have never studied it myself.
    Once ensconced, I penned a swift note to Nicola L’Envers y Aragon, stamping it with the impress of Montrève’s seal and sending it with Dolan, the younger of the men-at-arms, to the Consul’s Quarters in the Plaza del Rey. When it was done, I ordered a bath and procured a laundress to press the creases from my best gown, such as it was-a silver-grey silk, the bodice finely embroidered with silver thread. It would do. I hadn’t packed my garments with thoughts of a visit to the King’s Consul of Amílcar in mind.
    Nicola’s reply, I thought, would come promptly if she was in residence; indeed, she was, and her response was faster than I had reckoned. No sooner had I finished applying a touch of kohl to my lashes and tucking my hair into a mesh caul laced with seed pearls, but a wide-eyed Aragonian lad knocked at the door, a servant of the inn come to announce in comprehensible Caerdicci that the King’s own carriage was awaiting us below.
    It wasn’t, of course-it was the carriage of the King’s Consul, but it was impressive enough, with a driver and a footman and the arms of the House of Aragon worked in gilt on the sides. Luc sat nervously on the tufted velvet seats, fussing with the curtains, taking up a good deal of space for one man.
    “Elua, but it’s stifling in here!” he said, tugging at the frogged closure of his doublet. His summer-blue eyes, so like and unlike his brother’s, were wide and anxious. “Are you sure I’m dressed aright? I’ve never met foreign nobility before. Phèdre, what’s the proper form of address for a lord of the House of Aragon? Should I kneel or bow?”
    “The Lady Nicola is D’Angeline, and a friend,” I reminded him. “And Ramiro is Consul, not the King himself. Just... pretend you’re greeting the Marquis de Toluard, Luc. Accord them the same courtesies you would him.”
    “Tibault de Toluard would haul me off to the parapets to see his engineers’ latest improvement on the trebuchet,” Luc said glumly. “I don’t think Ramiro Zornín de Aragon will do the same.”
    “No.” Joscelin lounged against the padded seats, unconcerned. “He’ll likely show you the latest game of hazard instead, and if you’ve not brought your dice, I’m sure he’s a set to lend. Don’t worry, Luc. You’ll not embarrass Verreuil.”
    “I hope not,” his brother muttered.
    Amílcar is a pleasant city, though we saw little enough of it through the drawn curtains of the carriage, alighting in the Plaza del Rey. On one side of the square stood the Count’s palace, a solid affair of grey granite with adornments of wrought-iron scrollwork. The quarters of the King’s Consul faced it on the opposite side, a lower, more modest building. A pair of guards waved us through the archway into the courtyard, where we were met by a majordomo in the livery of the House of Aragon.
    “Comtesse de Montrève,” he said in fluent D’Angeline as I stepped from the carriage. “Messires Verreuil. The Lady Nicola will receive you.”
    We followed him into the marble foyer. It was cooler within than without, light filtering through fretted windows to cast complex patterns, date palms in vast pots lending a suggestion of green shade. He led us to the salon of reception, which had a narrow marble frieze about the walls depicting the King of Aragon pardoning a Prince of Carthage, much gilt trim and a carpet of a startling red hue.
    “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Nicola L’Envers y Aragon smiled, coming forward to greet us. “I’m not allowed to make changes to the decor in the reception hall. Phèdre, my dear. Well met.” A gold seal-bracelet tinkled at her wrist as she raised one hand to touch my face, giving me the kiss of greeting. “And Joscelin.”
    “My lady Nicola.” There was a trace of amusement in his voice as he bent to kiss her.
    “You must be Luc.” Nicola regarded him with interest. “They breed tall in Verreuil.”
    “My lady.” Luc blushed and bowed. Nicola laughed.
    It was a familiar laugh, low and intimate, and one that set my pulse to beating faster whenever I heard it-even here, even now. But I have been an anguissette all my life, and I have grown