Kushiel's Chosen

she read aloud, " 'and his skin was fair and his eyes as black as coal. And he was hanged by the neck until dead, but Naamah had taken his seed unto herself, and she was with child. Unto Naamah was born a daughter in the sixth year of Elua in Terre d'Ange that was, and that daughter she named Mara. And Mara bore the curse of her faÃer's blood, and went with her eyes veiled. In atonement for the curse she bore, she went unto Kushiel, and in pity he granted her penance and made her his handmaiden.' " Over my faint sound of protest, Favrielle closed the book. "You see?"
    I did. "You think she was an anguissette."
    "It's a likely story." Favrielle shrugged. "We're not supposed to tell it," she admitted grudgingly. "Beggars, princes and shepherds are all right, but the Night Court doesn't like it known that Naamah lay with a murderer. Still." Biting her knuckle, she regarded me. "Some know it. I thought you might. You'd make a good Mara."
    It was true; more than true, it was brilliant. I eyed the closed volume. "Is there any chance I might have a copy made of that?"
    "No." Favrielle's reply was curt. "You're interested in the book?"
    " "The fruit of the future is rooted in the soil of history,'' I said in flawless Caerdicci, quoting the historian Calpurnius; the look of surprise on Favrielle's face was deeply gratifying. "Never mind. I'll speak to the Dowayne. Tell me your idea for my costume."
    Taking a deep breath, she did, sketching it out in swift, elegant lines on a piece of foolscap. It was gorgeous, and it was perfect. I wished it had not been, for I did not like her overmuch, but once seen, I could not forget it.
    "We'll need to leave a seam open, there ..." she pointed, "... and stitch it closed once you're wearing it. If your maid is handy, she might do. It's the only way, with the back so low. But with your marque, it would be a crime not to." Favrielle tapped the stylus absently against her teeth and gave me a skeptical look. "I'd have expected to find you welted from stem to stern, from the stories I've heard, but you've skin like cream."
    "I heal clean," I said briefly; it is the only blessing to being an anguissette. Kushiel's chosen would not last long were it not so. "What would be the cost?"
    "Five hundred ducats." Her words were blunt.
    It is a tribute, I think, to my self-control that I did no more than blink. It was an outrageous amount. It was also • an amount I did not possess. "I beg your pardon? I thought you said five hundred ducats."
    "The fabric will have to be dyed to order. It's a rushed job." She shrugged. "You will recoup it in a night, if you well and truly intend to enter Naamah's Service, Comtesse. And I have my marque to think of. What I do for the House is reckoned my upkeep. The Dowayne has granted me leave to take your commission. I cannot afford to charge less."
    "If the costume is a success, you will have patrons from the Great Houses of Terre d'Ange knocking at the gates of Eglantine House for your services," I observed. "And your Dowayne will not turn them away. Three hundred, no more."
    "The design is sound," Favrielle said flatly. "Whether or not it succeeds depends wholly on your fortitude, and I would sooner put my faith in my coffer. Four hundred."
    "If you find another anguissette whose fortitude you like better, I would be interested to hear it. Three hundred fifty." I didn't have that either, but I would find a way.
    "Done." The young seamstress gave a faint smile. They do not drive so hard a bargain as Bryony House, who know well the erotic power money holds, but they are no slouches in Eglantine. None of the Thirteen Houses are. "I will send for the Chancellor to draw up the contract. Livia, bring my pigments. I must match the color of your marque, Comtesse."
    We were some time concluding our business. I hoped that Favrielle would warm to me once our bargain was struck, for I felt a reluctant sympathy for her and I misliked such animosity in one my own age, but her manner was unchanged.
    It would be a stunning costume.
    I found Remy awaiting me in the outer sitting room. A bronze-haired boy clad in the green and white of Eglantine House leaned on his knee, watching agape as Remy showed him the trick of walking a copper coin across his knuckles.
    "My lady," my chevalier greeted me, making the coin disappear, and seemingly pulling it from the boy's hair. "Here," he said to the lad. "You keep it, and practice."
    The boy giggled; darting forward, he planted a kiss on