Kushiel's Chosen

doing. Let him be."
    "No." It was Fortun who spoke, slow and thoughtful. "It is Cassiel's doing, my lady. And even you can do naught about that."
    "Maybe." I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. "But I chose my course, and it is Joscelin who bears the price of it."
    "Stupid to speak of blame when the wills of the immortals are involved." Ti-Philippe, irrepressible as ever, fished a pair of dice from his purse and tossed them high, grinning. "Let the Cassiline stew, my lady; I am told they thrive upon it. Fortun says we have questions to ask, and quarry to pursue!"
    "Yes." I dropped my hands and gazed at their open, eager faces, steeling my resolve. "We do. And I must plan my debut."

SIX
    In the end, my decision was made for me. There are patterns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation of a theme. So musicians say the greatest sonatas are composed; whether or not it is true, I do not know, but of a surety, I have seen it emerge in the tapestry of my life.
    I received an invitation to the Midwinter Masque at the Palace.
    The first such event I attended was as a child not quite ten, at Cereus House. It was there that I saw for the first time Baudoin de Trevalion, Prince of the Blood. He is dead now, executed for treason, along with his mother Lyonette, who was sister to King Ganelon and called the Lioness of Azzalle. I used to spy upon her for Delaunay; there was a Marquise among my patrons who answered to the Lioness of Azzalle. It wasn't Delaunay who brought down House Trevalion, though. That was Melisande's doing, Melisande and Isidore d'Aiglemort. None of us guessed, then, why Melisande would do such a thing; Baudoin ate from the palm of her hand, or near to it. He gave her the very letters that condemned him, correspondence between his mother and Foclaidha of Alba, plotting to seize the throne of Terre d'Ange.
    I know, now; everyone knows. Melisande knew Baudoin would not have defied his mother openly for her sake, and she had a greater target in mind. Terre d'Ange and Skaldia combined, an empire the likes of which no one has seen since the days of Tiberium's rule. D'Aiglemort was only a pawn, though he didn't know it until the end. I know, I'm the one who told him.
    Thus my first Midwinter Masque. And my last... my last had been the last assignation I ever took as Delaunay's anguissette, and the only time Melisande Shahrizai ever contracted me as sole patron. I earned my marque, that Longest Night, with the patron-gift she made me. It is the only time, in a hundred assignations, I ever gave the signale, the code word of surrender that requires a patron to cease. I gave it twice that night, and the second time for no reason beyond the fact that Melisande ordered me to speak it.
    Well and so, that is my history with the Midwinter Masque. When Ysandre's invitation arrived, I took it for a sign-which is how I came to stand frowning at my wardrobe.
    "I have nothing to wear." Irritated, I flung the doors of the wardrobe closed and sat with a flounce upon my bed. Gemma, the day-maid, set down her feather-duster and stretched her eyes at me; by her standards, I had gowns aplenty.
    "My lady," she said timidly. "What of the grey velvet? It is passing lovely, and I... I have a brother who is apprenticed to a masquer, he could make somewhat to match; a diadem of stars, mayhap, or a mist-maiden ..."
    "No." I dismissed her suggestion, but kindly. "Thank you, Gemma. If I were going anywhere but the Palace, it would do nicely, and you are good to offer. No, I need somewhat else. If I am to debut as a Servant of Naamah among my peers, it must be somewhat no one has ever seen." Chin in hands, I mused. "Cecilie is right. I need a seamstress." Gemma ran for paper-she had been quick to discern my ways-and I penned a swift note.
    As a former adept of Cereus House and one of the great courtesans of her time, Cecilie Laveau-Perrin's status was undiminished within the Night Court for, within a day, I had an appointment to meet with Favrielle no Eglantine, and if I thought my own standing had aught to do with it, I was disabused of the notion within minutes of meeting my prospective seamstress.
    All of the Thirteen Houses claim different strengths; as all of the Thirteen hold to different versions of Naamah.
    Eglantine is the artists' House, and her adepts are skilled in a dozen disciplines: players, poets, artists, musicians, dancers and tumblers. And, it would appear, clothiers. Even so,