Kushiel's Dart

the lure of gathered knowledge was enough to tempt Alcuin to disobedience. With a sigh, I returned to my books.
    But of course, there was nothing to prevent me from practicing on myself.
    It began that night, in the darkness of my little room, which I had all to myself. We were studying the opening caresses of arousement. Throwing off my coverlet to lie naked on my bed, I whispered their names to myself, tracing their patterns on my skin, until my blood burned beneath the touch of my fingers.
    And yet I refrained from seeking the release I knew was to be gained, adhering strictly to the lessons we were allotted. I cannot say why, save that it was a torment, and as such, was sweet to me.
    Older and wiser than Delaunay in the service of Naamah, Cecilie Laveau-Perrin discerned my predicament. We were reciting Emmeline of Eisande's Log of Seven Hundred Kisses (most of which I was unable to practice by myself) when I felt her shrewd gaze resting upon me and faltered.
    "You are impatient with these studies, no?" she asked me.
    "No, my lady." Long trained to obedience, my reply was automatic. I raised my eyes to meet her gaze and swallowed. "My lady, I was raised in the Night Court. Had I been allowed to stay, my training would have begun a year gone by. Even now, I might be saving toward my marque; perhaps even paying the marquist to limn the base, if my virgin-price were high enough. Yes, I am impatient."
    "So it is money that is the spur which goads you, hmm?" She stroked my hair, smiling a little.
    "No." I admitted it softly, leaning into her touch.
    "It is Kushiel's Dart which pricks you, then." She waited until I looked up again, nodding, not a little surprised. She had never spoken of it, and no one in Cereus House had known me for what I was. Cecilie laughed. "Anafiel Delaunay is not the only scholar in the world, my sweet, and I have done a fair amount of reading since I left the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers. Never fear, I'll keep Anafiel's secret until he's ready to reveal you. But until that time, there is naught you can do but suffer the torments of your own devising."
    A flush of embarrassment suffused my skin.
    "There is no fulfillment that is not made sweeter for the prolonging of desire." She patted my burning cheek. "If you wish to improve your skills, use a mirror and a candle, that you may see what you're about and study the lineaments of desire."
    That night, I did. By candlelight, I traced the patterns of arousal upon my skin, watching it change and flush, and thought about the fact that Cecilie knew, and Alcuin, and wondered in a delicious frisson of guilt and shame if either had told Delaunay what I did in secret.
    So did my education continue.

ELEVEN
    In the two years that followed, we did nothing but study until I thought I should die of it.
    And to make matters worse, Hyacinthe, my one true friend, was no help at all.
    "I cannot touch you, Phedre," he said with regret, shaking his black ringlets. We sat in the Cockerel, an inn which he had made his informal headquarters. "Not in that way. I am Tsingano, and you're an indentured servant. It is vrajna , forbidden, according to the laws of my people."
    I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could speak, a giggling young noblewoman detached herself from a party of revelers occupying the long table at the center of the inn. It was the fashion among daring young lords and ladies to gallivant about Night's Doorstep in groups of seven or eight, hoisting tankards and rubbing elbows with poets, players and commoners.
    Hyacinthe had become something of a fashion too.
    "O Prince of Travellers," she began solemnly, then giggled and cast a glance at her laughing friends, getting the rest of the words out with difficulty. "O ... O Prince of Travellers, if I cross your . . . your palm with gold, will you read the fortune writ in mine?"
    At the gleam of a gold coin, Hyacinthe-who had never to my knowledge ventured past Night's Doorstep-put on his best Prince of Travellers manner, rising to give her a graceful bow, his dark eyes mirthful.
    "Star of the Evening," he said, at once wheedling and portentious, "I am at your command. For one coin, one answer, as scribed by the Fates upon your fair palm. What would you know, gracious lady?"
    Deliberately ignoring me, she arranged her skirts and sat, rather closer to Hyacinthe than was necessary. She gave him her hand with the air of someone bestowing great favor, then whispered, "I wish to know if Rene LaSoeur will