Kushiel's Chosen

of fate that made me otherwise.
    "Delaunay's anguissette," Joscelin said aloud, his thoughts following the same course as my own. "He would be proud beyond words, Phèdre; I knew him long enough to know that. Let Ysandre honor you. You've earned it."
    "We all have, and you will go too, my lord Cassiline, without fussing." I cocked my head, considering him. "A trip to the barber wouldn't be amiss, either."
    Since La Serenissima, Joscelin's hair had grown out in ragged wheat-gold profusion; I do not think he'd had it trimmed since my efforts, but merely bound it back in a braid, wisps escaping down the cabled length of it. I swear he was as careless of his beauty as a rich drunkard with his purse. In the end, I ordered him into Ti-Philippe's custody to be properly shorn, and commissioned new attire for all three of us.
    Favrielle nó Eglantine had prospered in my absence; impossible to believe, but her year's tenancy at Eglantine House had already passed, and she had opened a salon of her own in the clothiers' district. It was small, but thriving, occupying the ground floor of a building there. Three assistants she had already-draper, a cutter and a second seamstress-and looked to add more in short order.
    "Comtesse," she greeted me, curling her scarred lip; I found myself, oddly, reassured by her unchanged demeanor. "You come at a poor time, as usual. I have a number of commissions on short order, a good many of which seem to be for your gala. I suppose you think I shall make time for you, merely because I am beholden to you?"
    "No," I said cheerfully. "You'll make time because it is my gala and you are a shrewd businesswoman, and because I will tell you in detail what they are wearing in the court of the Archon of Phaistos on Kriti. Also, if you wish, about a gown that was made for me based on an ancient poem in Illyria."
    Favrielle paused, narrowing her green eyes at me. "Tell me."
    I did, while she made sketches and notations, pacing the room, muttering to herself and hauling out swatches of fabric. When I had done, she called crossly for more foolscap and sat for a time sketching furiously and dabbling pigment, showing me the results at length-a gown of sheerest green, pleated and gathered under the breasts in the Kritian style, nigh-transparent over a close-fitting sheath of deep bronze silk. On paper, the effect was of an ancient Hellene statue veiled in thin drapery.
    "Very nice," I said, and smiled to see her scowl. "Can you make it in time for the fête?"
    She could and did, of course; it was too splendid not to, and Favrielle nó Eglantine had the pride of her genius. In addition, she had powers of persuasion beyond my ken , sufficient to coax Joscelin out of his usual drab Cassiline-inspired greys. It took me aback to see him in a doublet of forest green and breeches to match, sober and elegant. As was his wont, Ti-Philippe wore more festive garb, echoing the same colors, with a close-fitting vest striped green and bronze over dark breeches and a full-sleeved white shirt, and we all of us looked quite fine.
    The fête was held in the vast Palace ballroom, with an immense dining table echoing the banquet depicted on the gorgeous murals of Elua and his Companions at banquet; truly, Ysandre spared no expense. Sprays of blossoming branches laced the slender colonnades-peach, cherry and apple-and the tiny glass lamps were filled with clear water that night, shimmering with white light. A fountain played in the grotto, lending its liquid music to the musicians' tunes, while finches in gilt-filigree cages sang sweetly above it all. I thought that we had arrived late, although it was the hour appointed by the Queen's invitation, for it seemed the flower of D'Angeline nobility had already assembled. It was not until the chamberlain announced us that I understood.
    "The Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, Mes-sire Joscelin Verreuil, the chevalier Philippe Dumont," he called in ringing tones.
    Save for the birdsong and fountain, silence fell over the vast space as the music ceased; and then a soft ripple of applause, D'Angeline heads inclined in bows. I had not fully grasped, until then, that we were the guests of honor and the fête awaited on our entrance. Ysandre received us personally, extending both hands in greeting, Drustan mab Necthana at her side.
    I had seen him, of course, when he entered the City in procession, but there had been time only for a brief exchange of pleasantries. It gladdened my heart