Kushiel's Dart

Seeing my expression, he stopped smiling. "My dear, Alcuin's virgin-price would never have gone so high were it not for the auction, and I am afraid that the patrons you attract are not the sort to air their penchants in public. If you have been struck as truly by Kushiel's Dart as I believe, then experience will do naught but hone your gift. Your asking-price will rise, and not diminish with time." He cupped my face, looking sincerely at me. "Alcuin must trade on the asset of his rarity, and to preserve it, he may contract but seldom. To set a high mark on his debut was necessary. But you, Phedre. . . . Valerian House knows of no anguissette in living memory. Indeed, it has been so long since the world has seen your like that even Cereus, the First House, failed to recognize you. This I promise; while you live, you will be a rarity."
    I might have been seven years old again, standing in the Dowayne's receiving room where, with four lines of verse, Delaunay turned me from an ill-favored bastard into the chosen of Elua's Companions. I wanted to cry, but Delaunay didn't care for tears. "Childric d'Essoms will be getting a bargain," I said instead.
    "Lord d'Essoms will be getting more than he bargained for." He looked sternly at me. "I want you to be careful, Phedre. Seek nothing, ask him nothing. Let him take the hook, think he has won this victory from me. If all goes well, he will ask for you a third time, a fourth; risk nothing until then. Do you understand?"
    "Yes, my lord. And if it goes poorly?"
    "If it goes poorly, I will put half the contract fee toward your marque, and you have never to see him again." Delaunay poked me in the arm, quite sharply. "Under any circumstances, Phedre, you will not hesitate to use the signale . Is that clear?"
    "Yes, my lord. Hyacinthe." I said it a second time on purpose, just to bother him. He ignored it.
    "And the same rules apply. You are not to betray your learning. As far as d'Essoms knows, such skills as you have, you learned in the Night Court."
    "Yes, my lord." I paused. "You took Alcuin to court to transcribe the Alban interview."
    "Ah, that." Delaunay broke out in his unexpected grin. "I said he wrote a fair hand; I didn't tell anyone he spoke Cruithne. As far as anyone but the King himself knows, Alcuin understood only what I translated. And our fair scribe was seen by a number of intrigued potentates that day."
    As interesting as that was, I was more fascinated by the fact that Delaunay was actually suggesting Ganelon de la Courcel, the King of Terre d'Ange, knew what he was up to. I wished I could say the same. But, "I will be circumspect, my lord," was all I said aloud.
    "Good." He stood up, looking satisfied. "Then I will make the arrangements."

SIXTEEN
    On the day of my first assignation, I swear it, I think Delaunay was more nervous than I. Even with Alcuin, he had not fussed so much.
    Later, when I knew my art better, I understood Delaunay better as well. As sophisticated as his knowledge and tastes might be, there was a threshold his own desires did not cross. Like many people, he understood the spice a touch of dominance might add to loveplay, but no more than a touch. Yet so thorough was his study of the desires of others that one forgot it was a comprehension of the mind only. In the marrow of his bones, he did not know what it was to crave the touch of the lash like a kiss. Thus, his nervousness.
    When I understood this, I loved him all the better for it; though, of course, I had already long since forgiven him. There was nothing I would not forgive Delaunay.
    "There," he breathed, standing behind me in the great mirror, tucking in an errant lock of my hair. "You look beautiful."
    He rested his hands upon my shoulders and I gazed into the mirror. My own eyes looked back at me, dark and lustrous as bistre smudged in by an artist's pencil, save for the single mote of scarlet. In my mirror-image, it flecked the right eye, vivid as a scrap of rose-petal floating on calm waters. Delaunay liked the look of my hair caught in the silk mesh of a caul, restrained in its abundance. It weighed heavily against the fine strands, straining to escape, accentuating the delicate shape of my face and the ivory pallor of my skin.
    It is vulgar to color youth, so the only cosmetic he had allowed me was a touch of carmine on my lips. They stood out, like the mote in my eye, vivid as rose-petals. I did not recall seeing such a sensuous pout to my lower lip before.
    For my garb,