Kushiel's Chosen

few tendrils allowed to escape. A kneeling servant presented a tray with a dozen tiny jars of cosmetics and unguents, but I partook lightly of those, only a touch of carmine for my lips and a smudge of kohl to darken my lashes. Gazing in the mirror, I saw my face clearly for the first time since La Serenissima. It seemed odd that I had not changed more to myself; thus the cant of my cheekbones, and lips shaped for pleading or kissing, thus the sweep of lashes, thus the familiar arch of brow and dark wide-set eyes with the crimson fleck vivid against the left iris. And yet there was a difference, some difference, a shadow of gravity that had not been there before.
    What you have seen, you carry with you.
    Well, I thought; I am D'Angeline, I will learn to carry it with grace. And shortly the Archon's servants came bowing to escort me to his side, and thence to the dinner party of the Lady Althaia.
    Demetrios Asterius looked long and hard at me when I was ushered into his presence, breaking off at last with a shake of his head. "The Kritian style suits you, my dear Phèdre," he said mildly. "Would you had come here under more auspicious circumstances. Come, then, and let us enjoy ourselves while we may."
    We were the last to arrive at Althaia's elegant quarters, where a dozen guests, lords and ladies both, reclined on couches in the spacious salon. They rose and bowed or curtsied when the Archon entered, and then Demetrios moved among them exchanging informal greetings, punctuated with kisses and exclamations. I was introduced to each and soon heard my name fluttering about the room, pronounced by some in D'Angeline fashion, some in Hellene. They were familiar with each other, dropping honorifics to use given names. Althaia greeted me as an old friend, kissing me on both cheeks, and then clapped her hands to order the wine poured.
    It was at once pleasant and strange to be thus entertained. The conversation was witty and lively; so lively I was hard-put to follow it at times, for my Hellene was slower than theirs, and the Kritian accent a trifle strange to my ear. They spoke of light matters; love affairs, theatre, fashion. So it is at such gatherings, and more solemn conversation saved for later. Even so, it was not in my heart to banter thusly, though I concealed it well enough.
    "Is it true, Phaedra," one lady asked me breathlessly, "that in Terre d'Ange, everyone has four lovers, men and women alike?"
    "No, my lady." I smiled at her wide-eyed interest. "Of a surety, there are those who do; as many and more. But there are others whose pleasure is to cleave solely to one mate, and no other."
    "As a hetaera, you must surely fall into the former category, my dear," Althaia said sweetly, reclining on the couch she shared with her brother; Timanthes bit his lip, hiding a smile. "How many lovers do you claim?"
    "None." I met her disbelieving gaze and shook my head. " 'Tis not the same thing, to take a patron as a lover. For a Servant of Naamah to bestow a lover's token and privileges upon a patron is a great honor, and I have never done it."
    "Never?" Demetrios raised his eyebrows. "No husband, no consort, no lover... that is very nearly a crime, I think!" Two lords and one lady near him added laughing agreement.
    I inclined my head to him. "Ah, but my lord Archon, you never asked if I had a consort."
    "I asked-"
    "You asked if the pirate was her consort, Demetrios," Timanthes called, flushed with wine and high spirits. "Not if she had one."
    "I... ah. Yes." He reflected. "I did. It seemed likely enough, the way he stands at your side and glares at me. So." He sighed. "Not the pirate, then."
    "No, my lord." I pictured Joscelin' s face, outraged at the comparison, and smiled to myself. "Not the pirate."
    "Well, it would be too much, I suppose, to imagine one such as you lacked for companionship." Demetrios Asterius gave another sigh. "Althaia, you promised us entertainment, did you not?"
    "Of course, Demetrios," she said smoothly, clapping her hands once more to summon dancers.
    There were six of them, young men and women, and very skilled, executing a complex series of dances in the center of the ring of couches, with tiny bells at their wrists and ankles that marked out an intricate rhythm. I watched them with my mind elsewhere, thinking of Joscelin. I had no right to make any claim on him, no right to name him my consort. Once, he had held that role, but he had abjured it. I remembered his long vigil in the rain-soaked