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“Tell me about the Queen’s delegation to Iskandria.”
    I told her, and watched her pace, watched life return, her mind working as the first shock diminished, calculations moving behind her features. And Elua help me, but I loved her for it, a little bit. Even so ...
    “Melisande.”
    It stopped her. She turned to look at me.
    I shook my head. “You cannot do it. I know how loosely this prison holds you; believe me, I know. It gives me nightmares. If you go to Iskandria, if you leave this place ...” I paused. “I will know it. I am here against my Queen’s wishes, against everyone’s wishes. There’s a death-sentence on your head, Melisande, should you abandon Asherat’s protection. And if you do, I will be honor-bound to do what I may to see you thwarted.”
    “He is my son !” she spat, features contorting.
    “I know.” Although my voice shook, I stood my ground. “And I am Kushiel’s Chosen, and in liege to Ysandre de la Courcel. I will go to Lord Amaury Trente, in Iskandria; I will go to Pharaoh, if I need. What can you do, now, that they cannot? Your resources are spread thin, and they will be spread thinner if you must needs evade capture. We have played this game before, my lady. Do you wish to set yourself against me?”
    Melisande flung back her head, her bright, restless gaze raking the walls of her salon. Blessed Elua, even in despair she was splendid! I had not seen, until then, that it was a prison. I saw it, then, the subtle, gilded bars that confined her. She shuddered and grew still, contained. “You break my heart , Phèdre .”
    “Yes.” A strange, dispassionate sense of calm overtook me. For once, at last, we stood upon even ground. I gazed at her, thinking on it. “You broke mine a long time ago, my lady.”
    “Kushiel’s Dart.” She came near and laid her hand against my face. “Naamah’s Servant.” Her touch was cool, her expression unreadable. “In the beginning, I thought you were a toy, no more; a dangerous plaything. I daresay even Anafiel knew no different, though he taught you well enough. Later ... later, I knew better. A challenge, mayhap; a gauntlet cast down by the gods.”
    “And now?” I asked.
    “Now?” Something stirred in the depths of Melisande’s eyes, behind her face, beauty honed by grief, a vengeful cruelty. Our history was written there in all its betrayal and hatred and violent ecstasy. Dispassion shattered, a momentary thing, transitory and fragile. Her voice lowered, honey-sweet; how had I forgotten its power? “Now.” My blood leapt in answer and my cheek blossomed with heat where she touched me. A familiar ache squeezed my heart, beat like a pulse between my thighs. I felt my lids grow heavy, my lips part. To feel it again, the heat of her, the press of her body, her breasts against mine, that cruel, expert touch; ah, Elua! I fought to keep from swaying forward. Melisande took her hand away. “Now, I don’t know, Phèdre.”
    This time, her withdrawal hit me like a void; I nearly staggered against it, yearning toward her, the ache in my heart keening like a winter wind. I had done her a kindness, leaving Joscelin behind. She did me a kindness now and turned away, speaking over her shoulder.
    “I never wanted a conscience. And yet it seems our lord Kushiel has seen fit to give me what I lacked at birth. If I have such a thing, it is embodied in you, Phèdre.” Melisande turned back, her features composed, hands folded in her sleeves. “I have heard tell of Lord Amaury Trente. A capable man, it is said, and loyal to the Queen, but not, I think, a clever one.”
    “Clever enough,” I replied unthinking.
    One corner of her mouth curled. “He would have gone to the Duke of Milazza to raise an army if Ysandre had let him. It was you who suggested the Unforgiven, was it not? I heard they knelt to you.”
    It was true enough that I could not deny it. If Amaury Trente had had his way ten years ago, we would have led a foreign army onto D’Angeline soil. The Unforgiven ... yes. It had been my idea. And they had knelt. I shrugged with a stoicism I did not feel. “They gave fealty in Kushiel’s name. They have much for which to atone.”
    “Enough that the Royal Army let them pass unchallenged.” Melisande’s face was still and calm, a cameo carved of ivory. “You threw coins,” she said. Her brows quirked, a distant note of bemusement in her voice. “Coins.”
    We had; silver coins, bearing the profile of Ysandre de la Courcel,