Kushiel's Chosen

with half a dozen candles set about to illuminate the wreathing steam.
    "Phèdre."
    It was Joscelin's voice at the door; I started, splashing water over the edge of the tub. "Come in."
    He let himself into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. I leaned my arms on the rim of the tub, looking up curiously. "What is it?"
    "I just wanted to see you one last time," he said quietly, kneeling opposite me and taking my hands in his. A rueful smile hovered at the corner of his mouth. "Before the rest of the world did."
    "Oh, Joscelin." I squeezed his hands; mine were slippery with water and oil. His face by candlelight was heartbreakingly beautiful. "Can you forgive me, a little anyway?"
    "If you can me." He stroked my damp hair. "I love you, you know."
    I nodded. "I know. And I you."
    "Elua have mercy on us." He rose, and stood looking down at me. "You'll dazzle them. They won't reckon the tenth part of your worth, but you'll dazzle them, Phèdre." Tears Stung my eyes; I'd no reply. After a moment, he gave his faint smile. "I've got to leave now if I'm to be at the Temple of Elua before dark. Naamah hold you in her hands and keep you safe."
    Somewhere, I found my voice. "Thank you," I whispered.
    With an unwontedly awkward bow, he nodded in return, and left.
    I closed my eyes and let myself wallow in the bittersweet pain of it for a moment. At least he had come to see me, and given me his blessing, after a fashion. Naamah's Servant and a Cassiline; Elua have mercy, indeed. But there was too much at stake to linger overlong in the intricacies of my relationship with Joscelin. After a moment, I set it reluctantly aside and emerged from the bath to pat myself dry, calling for Gemma to assist me.
    In truth, I could have used a coterie of attendants to make ready for the Masque. Since I didn't have them, I made do. My hair, I twined carelessly atop my head; it would have to wait until the last. First, came the gown.
    Finespun as a whispered prayer, the scarlet jersey slithered over my head and fell like water about me, fitted close to the hips and then falling in immaculate folds to sweep the floor. It had a high neckline, rising like a crimson flame to clasp around my throat, belying the daring nature of the low back; and low it was, skimming the very base of my marque.
    "Oh, my lady!" Gemma cried, wide-eyed, biting her knuckles.
    "Not bad, considering the cost." I surveyed myself in the mirror. "Here." I pointed to the seam along my left side, which gaped open. "This is where you'll need to sew it. Are you sure you're up to the task?"
    "Ye ... yes." Her voice trembled, and her fingers shook with nervousness as Gemma endeavored to thread the needle Favrielle no Eglantine had provided. After a minute, I sighed.
    "Here, let me-no, wait. Gemma, fetch Remy, will you?"
    She brought him in a trice, and he entered grinning, caught sight of me, coughed and promptly tripped over his feet.
    "Remy." I eyed him impatiently. "If I remember right, all of Rousse's sailors are handy with a needle and thread, and you in particular, yes?”
    "Elua!" He breathed it. "You really do notice everything! What do you need sewn, my lady?"
    I told him. His grin grew enormous.
    If things had gone otherwise in my life, I reflected, this would have been a very different evening. I could have made a fortune working under Delaunay's patronage; by the time I opened my own salon, I'd have been well settled. I would not have been the Comtesse de Montrève, with most of my monies tied to the welfare of my estate and its inhabitants, begging funds, at the mercy of a surly young clothier for my costume, with a war-seasoned sailor as my chief attendant.
    It is a good thing Blessed Elua saw fit to endow me with a sense of humor.
    As it happens, Remy did a neat job of it, and when he had finished, the scarlet gown clung to my upper body like it was painted there. That damnable Favrielle was a genius. "Thank you," I said to Remy, dismissing him; he grinned once more, and left chuckling. "Gemma, bring my cosmetics."
    I do not use a great deal; I am young enough that it would be vulgar. A hint of kohl to accentuate my eyes, which would be mostly hidden behind the veil, and carmine for my lips. When that was done, I set about styling my hair. One must learn such things, in Cereus House; happily, I had not lost the touch. It took some time, recreating the elaborate coif I'd seen in Favrielle's illustration of Mara, but I was well satisfied when I was done.
    The