Kushiel's Chosen

braid, and sturdy boots, surely, I thought, I was the very picture of drab modesty.
    That is what I thought at home, anyway. When we entered the hall of the yeshiva, where charcoal braziers battled the chill and the sound of children's voices murmuring filled the air, it was another matter.
    In a sea of foreign faces, a D'Angeline stands out like a beacon, flashing that deadly beauty that cuts like a blade. In the City, among my own kind, I forgot; here, as voices fell silent and Yeshuite children raised wondering eyes, I remembered. What must it be like, for them? I had offered Cecilie an apology on their behalf, but still. To see the blood-lineage of an errant branch of their own mythology stamped in the faces of the folk who surround them; it must be a strangeness. Yeshua ben Yosef walked the earth, and died, and was risen. So they believe, with enduring stubbornness; he is their .Mashiach, the Redeemer and the King-to-Come. But Blessed Elua, whom they do not acknowledge, walked the earth as well, and he and his Companions peopled a nation. There is no D'Angeline peasant, no matter how mean his origins, but has a tale in his heritage of a celestially begotten ancestor; mayhap it is only that Azza tumbled his thirty-generations-ago grandmother in a haystack, but there it is.
    So the children stared, and the young woman leading them. Joscelin cleared his throat. "We are here to see the Rebbe," he told them, blushing-although they were not staring at him. Only me. "I am sorry, we are early. Please continue."
    To my surprise, the young woman colored too. "Caleb, tell the Rebbe his friend Joscelin Verreuil is here," she said to one of the boys in charmingly accented D'Angeline. "And... I am sorry," she said to me, "who shall I say is with him?"
    "I am Phèdre nó Delaunay," I said, remembering to add, "the Comtesse de Montrève."
    "Oh!" Her color deepened, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Removing it hastily, she pushed the boy gently toward the door. "Make haste, Caleb."
    He must have done so, for a tall man of middle years and a solemn face emerged in short order. "I am sorry, Comtesse," he said, giving a brief bow. "We expected you at three bells, but the Rebbe will see you now." He allowed a small smile for Joscelin. "Brother Verreuil. A pleasure, my apostate friend."
    "Barukh hatah Adonai, father." With an answering smile, Joscelin gave his Cassiline bow. "This way," he said to me, gesturing.
    How often had he been here since the first visit? It had not been long, and yet he was familiar with the passages, striding surely along at the rear as our escort guided us. There were small cubbyholes for study; I heard the murmuring voices of older scholars reciting passages that were half-familiar to me.
    The Rebbe's quarters were larger, though poorly illumed. He kept us waiting a moment in the hallway, before our guide ushered us into his study.
    Joscelin had spoken truly; Nahum ben Isaac cut a formidable figure indeed. Despite the withering effects of age, one could see he had been doughty in his youth, and his broad shoulders still strained at the black cloth of his jacket. He must have been nearly eighty; his hair was almost wholly white, shot with a few strands of black. He'd not lost a whit of it, either-his sidelocks almost hid the dangling ends of his prayer shawl and his square-cornered beard fell midway to his waist. Fierce eyes glowered at me from a face like crumpled parchment.
    "Come in." His voice was as strongly accented as the young teacher's, but harsh with it. Joscelin bowed, murmuring the blessing again, and took a seat on a low stool at his feet; to my surprise, the Rebbe patted his cheek. "You're a good lad, for an apostate." The pitiless gaze came back to me. "So you're the one."
    "Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, father." I inclined my head. I did not curtsy, though it cost me a good deal of effort. Comtesse or no, I am trained to be subservient to authority, and the Rebbe had it in abundance.
    "A Servant of Naamah." The words fair curdled on his tongue. "Call it what you will, I know what you are, girl, fancy titles and all. Why would one such as you want to study Habiru and the teachings of the Mashiach?"
    We call them Yeshuites; so they call themselves, now. Before, they were the Children of Yisra-el. But before that, even, they were a tribal folk on the outskirts of Khebbel-im-Akkad, and Yeshuite scholars still call their ancient language by that name. If the Rebbe thought I would blink