Kushiel's Mercy

was surpassing mild; still, it made me heartsick.
    “Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
    And so I went with them, willing myself to be calm and docile. The truth was, there wasn’t anything I could do if Sidonie’s bindings failed and there was a chance that she’d turn on me if they did whether I was present or not. I felt frustrated and helpless. Mayhap she was right and I should have stayed out of the City, but it would have killed me to send her here alone with only Kratos to aid her. Quick-witted and loyal as he was, he barely spoke D’Angeline.
    Above everything, there hovered the pervasive sense that she needed me, that I needed to be here. It was the same sense Sidonie had felt on the ship. Blessed Elua had joined us for a purpose. If there was aught we could do, it would require us both.
    Once I’d willed myself to docility and we’d entered Montrève’s carriage, Phèdre and Joscelin seemed more themselves. Almost.
    “So how was Carthage, love?” Phèdre asked gently, as though I were ten years old and I’d gone on a pleasure-jaunt.
    “Fine.” I forced a smile. “They were very kind to me there.”
    “Did you . . .” She hesitated. “Did Prince Astegal’s chirurgeons examine you?”
    “Oh, yes.” I leaned my head back against the cushions. “They were able to help a little.
    They explained matters in a way I could understand. I know I’m not right in my wits. I do.”
    “It’s all right, Imri.” Joscelin exchanged a glance with Phèdre. “We’ll take care of you.
    We’ll always take care of you.”
    My eyes stung. “Thank you.”
    Phèdre’s townhouse in the City had always been a place of warmth and joy. Every time I’d returned to it, I’d been received with open arms and tears of happiness. Not this time.
    Our driver had to give a password before the gate was opened. In the narrow courtyard, Montrève’s men-at-arms were arrayed to meet us, hands hovering over sword-hilts.
    “Is all well?” Ti-Philippe called in a hard voice.
    “As well as it gets,” Joscelin affirmed. “Bad news from afar.”
    We descended from the carriage. There was no Eugènie waiting to fold me to her bosom and accuse me of being heartless, no joyous reunion. Only hard-eyed, watchful men. One of them gave me a terse smile.
    “Prince Imriel.” Hugues inclined his head. “We’re pleased to see you safe.”
    Hugues, sweet Hugues. He’d always been among my favorite retainers at House Montrève, the strapping shepherd-lad Ti-Philippe had seduced ages ago, long since grown into a beautiful, gentle man with a heart as vast as his shoulders were broad. He’d taught me to wrestle when I was a boy, taught me to wield a quarterstaff as effectively as a shepherd’s crook. When I’d wed Dorelei and gone away to Alba, Hugues had given me his treasured wooden flute as a parting gift. He should have been laughing with joy, concocting more bad poetry to declaim in his lovely voice.
    He wasn’t.
    “Thank you, Hugues,” I whispered.
    Another curt nod. “Of course.”
    Inside it was worse. The household staff was quiet and furtive— here , here in Phèdre nó Delaunay’s home, where it wasn’t unknown for a stablehand to dine with the Comtesse of Montrève.
    “Where . . .” I cleared my throat. “Where’s Eugènie?”
    Phèdre shot me a puzzled look. “In the kitchen, I imagine.”
    There I found Eugènie up to her elbows in flour, kneading dough. She bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Prince Imriel,” she said in a careful tone. “We had word of your return.
    I’m making the quince tarts you like so much.”
    I made myself smile at her. “Thank you, Eugènie.”
    It was just all so wrong , as though I was caught in a waking dream where no one was quite themselves. I thought I’d be better prepared than Sidonie to deal with it, since I’d already experienced their madness. I was wrong. Matters had worsened, and I wasn’t recovering from my own bout of insanity this time, questioning my own memories. I had to fight the urge to shake them, shout at them to wake up, to come to their senses.
    Ptolemy Solon had warned me that any attempt to struggle against the spell would cause it to tighten like a snare. I had to keep reminding myself of it.
    It got worse when we dined in the early evening. Shortly after we’d taken our seats at the table, there was a commotion in the courtyard. Joscelin went to attend to it and returned looking somber.
    “Queen’s courier,” he said. “Ysandre’s