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intertwined as our lives.”
    It gave me an unexpected jolt of memory. I had done that very thing-twelve years ago, it must be-in Anafiel Delaunay’s study, with Alcuin, who’d been nearly a brother to me; Alcuin, whose hair was as white as milk. I might have forgotten it, had Delaunay not entered in that very moment, bearing word that Melisande Shahrizai had come to offer me an assignation for the Longest Night.
    And in the seeds of that offer lay betrayal and horror, the study turned abattoir, Delaunay dead and Alcuin dying, his white hair sticky with blood.
    I hadn’t known, then. How could I have known? I had no gift of the dromonde to read the future like an open book. I had merely startled at Delaunay’s entrance, tugging my caught hair and feeling foolish.
    This time, I took the omen to heart.
    Beauty at its fullest bloom, before the first sere kiss of frost.
    It needed no dream, no seer to give warning. Beneath the languor of pleasure, I felt the weariness of long travel in my bones, and a thousand miles lying before me ... and in the distance, like hunting-horns blowing on the wind, the call of Kushiel’s justice. Hold this near to your heart . Our twined locks, joined fates, lay quiescent on his chest. I gazed at Joscelin’s face, relaxed and unguarded, as if to engrave it on my memory.
    “Why do you look at me so?” he asked.
    “Because,” I said, “I love you.”
    Unsurprisingly, I slept overlong and woke to broad daylight and the Queen’s summons waiting. At the Palace, we were met with alacrity and ushered into Ysandre and Drustan’s presence.
    Ysandre’s face was unreadable. For once, she made no rebuke when I curtsied to them in greeting. Whether or not she was wroth that I had circumvented her authority, I could not say. She’d gotten the letter I had sent by courier from Verreuil, and I daresay she knew from my demeanor that the news was not good.
    “Tell me,” was all she said.
    Drawing a deep breath, I did, leaving out no detail, with Joscelin supplying additional commentary. When I had finished, I gave her Nicola’s letter. Ysandre read it without speaking, passing it to Drustan.
    “I’m sorry, my lady,” I ventured at length, unable to bear the silence.
    “Don’t be.” Ysandre’s gaze returned from the unknowable monarchal distance on which she’d fixed it. “You did well to find him. I’m grateful for it.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Mind you,” the Queen’s voice took on an edge, “I am not entirely pleased that you chose to question my uncle the Duc without my foreknowledge, nor the priest Selbert, whose actions skirt dangerously close to treason. Still, I have learned well enough, Phèdre nó Delaunay, when it is unwise to interfere.” I said nothing, and Ysandre sighed. “How is it that you never solve one puzzle without laying a greater one at my feet?”
    “I’m sorry, my lady,” I repeated.
    “Oh, stop it.” Ysandre rested her chin on her fist and regarded Drustan as he laid down Nicola’s letter. “What do you say? How would the Cruarch of Alba handle such a matter?”
    Drustan gave a wry smile at odds with his tattooed features. “What do you think, love? We are barbarians, after all. If a Prince of the Cullach Gorrym were stolen, the Cullach Gorrym would ride to war. It is not so simple in Terre d’Ange, and this thief is no rival tribesman, but a merchant from a distant land, with no idea of the value of his prize. You can hardly go to war against Menekhet over it.”
    “No,” Ysandre said soberly. “Nor, I think, would Parliament support the notion. Carthage, now ... blood will run hot over their crime. I will have no trouble, I think, recommending that we demand reparation from the oligarchy. It must be done, lest this should happen again; even so, what merit in it in terms of regaining the boy? The Carthaginian thieves are dead, Nicola writes, executed at the Count of Amílcar’s command. You saw it done?”
    It had been done. We had not watched it. I’d seen enough, even for my conscience.
    “It was a public execution, my lady,” I said. “Their heads were mounted on poles in the Plaza del Rey as a warning. That much, we saw.”
    “Unsubtle,” Ysandre said. “Pray it proves effective. Still ...” She shook her head, troubled. “Menekhet. They’ve little enough power, but it is an ancient nation, and cunning. Mayhap this slaver, this Fadil Chouma will return to Amílcar; mayhap not. I must presume the latter to be true, and