Kushiel's Chosen

a passing servant's tray and bowed, escorting me to the dancing floor.
    He did dance, and passably well; I am trained to follow anyone's lead. We looked well together, with the scarlet fabric of my gown swirling against the sober black velvet of his doublet and hose. I saw heads turn as we passed, puzzled whispers at my half-veiled face giving way to dawning recognition at the sight of my marque. I could feel it, almost, the intricate pattern etched the length of my spine, burning as if the ink were fresh-pierced into my skin by the marquist's tapper.
    As our dance ended, I espied a figure clad as the Eremite of Seagrove making his way toward me, unrecognizable in flowing blue-green robes with a half-mask of the Eremite's features and a false beard of white curls that spilled down his chest. "Phèdre nó Delaunay," he said, and his tone, though formal, was warm with affection. "Your costume leaves you at a disadvantage to conceal your identity."
    I smiled. "As your voice does you, my lord de Forcay."
    Gaspar Trevalion, the Comte de Forcay, chuckled and embraced me. "Elua, child, but it's good to see you well! How does your peerage sit with you?"
    "It would have sat better on Delaunay, my lord, but I do my best," I said honestly. Disowned by his father, Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève never held the title to which he was born; it was ironic that it had passed to me. And while I could not eliminate him from those I must suspect, I never doubted that Gaspar Trevalion's friendship with my lord Delaunay was genuine-nor, indeed, his affection for me. "Tell me, how have you been keeping?"
    As we spoke, a tall woman costumed as an elegant shepherdess-with flounces enough to terrify any flock, I daresay-invited Fortun to squire her in a dance with a subtle beckon of her gilded crook. He glanced inquiringly at me, and I nodded.
    "Your Cassiline is not with you," Gaspar observed.
    "He is maintaining Elua's vigil on the Longest Night."
    "A pity. Ghislain will be sorry to miss him. He has a great respect for that young man." He smiled. "As do I, although I'll admit, I thought Delaunay was mad when he told me he'd contracted one of the Cassiline Brotherhood to ward a Servant of Naamah."
    "So did I," I said absently, scanning the costumed crowd. "My lord de Somerville is here? No, wait, don't tell me." I spotted a tall, broad-shouldered figure in an osprey mask, a smaller mate in similar garb at his side, speaking to someone I didn't recognize at all. "There, beneath the fresco of Azza; that must be Bernadette with him."
    "Indeed." Gaspar Trevalion sounded surprised. "I didn't know you'd met her."
    "I haven't. I saw her at the trial." It was something of a delicate subject; Bernadette de Trevalion had been exiled for treason, though she'd had no part in her mother's machinations. It was Ysandre who had restored her, mending the breach through marriage to Ghislain de Somerville, the Royal Commander's capable son. Lent discretion by my veil, I stared, trying to place their companion by virtue of shape, stance or demeanor, but he evaded recognition. Even his costume, an elaborately striped affair with puffed sleeves, parti-color hose and a long-nosed mask, defied placement. "Gaspar, who is that with them?”
    "Ah." He smiled. "That, my dear, is Severio Stregazza, eldest-born son of Marie-Celeste de la Courcel Stregazza, grandson of the Doge of La Serenissima. Would you like to meet him?"
    "Yes." I took his arm, resting my fingertips on his sleeve. "Very much, my lord."
    Gaspar Trevalion was as good as his word, escorting me over forthwith. After exchanging fond greetings with Ghislain and making the formal acquaintance of his wife-I did not tell Bernadette that I had seen her sentenced to exile-I was introduced to the young Serenissiman lord.
    "Charmed, Comtesse." Severio Stregazza's surly tone, in faintly accented D'Angeline, said otherwise. He tugged at the stiff ruff of lace at his neck. At close range, he had a sheen of sweat on his features, and he looked uncomfortable in his costume. Severio had been born and raised in La Serenissima. No more than a year or two older than me at best, he was clearly ill at ease in his surroundings and awkward at the evidence of his mixed blood at a D'Angeline fête. His hot, irritable gaze took my measure. "You're very beautiful," he said abruptly. "I suppose we're related somehow?"
    "No, Prince Severio," I said, shaking my head. "My lord Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève of Siovale adopted me formally