Kushiel's Chosen

all adepts must make their marques before dedicating themselves to their artistic pursuits, and I was puzzled as to how a young clothier had risen to renown while still under the aegis of her House.
    I was not puzzled for long.
    "Comtesse," Favrielle no Eglantine greeted me briefly, sizing me up in one wry glance. "You realize you've chosen the worst possible time to request my services? I have two dozen adepts clamoring for masque attire, and this is scant notice."
    Taken aback, I blinked. She was no older than I; younger, perhaps, by a year or two. Wide grey eyes and a mop of red-gold curls, a charming sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose-there is a limit, within the canons, of the number allowable for beauty. Favrielle's met it. What did not was the scar that marred her upper lip, twisting it slightly.
    She saw me take notice. "Shall we get it out of the way? I am flawed goods, Comtesse," she said in a voice laden with irony. "Unfit for patrons, with a marque to meet nonetheless. This compels me to take commissions, when my Dowayne allows it. And inconvenient as it is, I cannot bypass this opportunity. So shall we do business?"
    "How did it happen?"
    Favrielle sighed. "I slipped in the bath," she recited tonelessly, "and split my lip." Glancing at a note, she raised her eyebrows. "The Palace masque, yes? Is that what you want?"
    "Favrielle." I touched her arm. "I understand, a little. I grew up in Cereus House, flawed, unfit to serve."
    "And now you are Kushiel's chosen, the Comtesse de Montrève, bringer of the Alban army, heroine of the Battle of Troyes-le-Mont and the Queen's pet courtesan." Her scarred lip curled. "Yes, Phèdre no Delaunay, I know. And when you can transform me into the same, let me know. Until then, tell me what you want to wear."
    Stung, I lifted my chin and made my reply coolly. "Something fitting for the first peer of the realm in a hundred years to debut as a Servant of Naamah at the Royal Masque."
    "Fine." Favrielle crossed her arms. "Strip.”
    It had been, I found, a surprisingly long time since I subjected myself to the critical gaze of a Night Court adept. I stood naked in the fitting-room of Eglantine House, surrounded by mirrors while Favrielle paced around me, grey eyes narrowed, measuring me here and there with an impersonal touch, draping bolts of various cloth over my shoulders to study the lie of it.
    "You could be taller," she said grudgingly; there was not much else for her to criticize. I may have been absent from Naamah's Service for a year and more, but I had not let myself go. "It makes for a better line. At least you're proportioned well." Satisfied, she nodded curtly. "Put your clothes on and I'll tell you what I think."
    Obediently, I dressed and waited in the draping room. A blushing apprentice brought mint tea, pouring gracefully. Favrielle emerged to join me, taking an unceremonious gulp of tea.
    "Costuming will be ornate this season," she said abruptly. "Heavy brocades, layers of skirts, lacework and trim, triple-slashed sleeves, masques an arm-span broad. Prosperity on the heels of war and all that. If I tried to outdo for you what I've already begun for others, I'd have you in so many layers you'd scarce be able to move. So." Her cup clattered on the tray as she set it down and reached for a length of fabric. "You want to stand out, anguissettel We go the other way. Simplicity."
    I fingered the fabric; a silk jersey spun so fine it flowed like water through my fingers. "On what theme?"
    "You know Mara's Tale?" Favrielle raised her brows inquiringly. I shook my head, and she made a sound of disgust. "Kushiel's chosen, and ignorant as a pig. Livia..." she turned to the apprentice, "... run to the library and fetch me Sarea's History ofNamarre. The illustrated version."
    I opened and closed my mouth, deciding discretion was the wiser part of couture. Ignorant as a pig! I spoke five languages with passing fluency, and had unravelled the riddle of the Master of the Straits. But it was true that Eglantine House was a repository of more lore and learning than the academies of Siovale, and much of it unknown outside their bounds.
    "Here." Favrielle opened the leather-bound book and pointed to a glowing illustration; a slender, dark-haired woman clad in a crimson gown that flowed like flame. Her hair was upswept in an elaborate coif of ringlets, and a sheer black veil hid her eyes. " 'In the fifth year of Elua, Naamah lay with a man condemned for murder,' "