Kushiel's Mercy

luminosity, unadorned, clinging to the curves of her body in a way that made my mouth go dry. She wore long gloves of the same white-gold fabric, but her creamy shoulders and the length of her back were bare. Her golden hair was coiled in an artful coronet, a radiating sunburst affixed to the back of her head. Behind the softly gilded domino, her eyes looked like pools of night.
    “Do you like it?” Sidonie asked.
    “You look so beautiful it hurts,” I said truthfully.
    She smiled. “So do you.”
    It should have been a perfect night.
    It wasn’t.
    For a long time, it promised to be. There was a little hush when Sidonie and I made our entrance, but it passed. This was the Longest Night, a time for joy and revelry. We had a good many friends and supporters amid the throng, and even Ysandre managed to greet us with considerable aplomb. Phèdre was there, of course, escorted by Ti-Philippe.
    “Elua!” she breathed. “So that’s what Favrielle’s been hiding.”
    I laughed. “She said she would have used it for you and Joscelin if he’d ever consented to attend.”
    “No.” Phèdre shook her head. “No, it’s perfect for you. Both of you.” She kissed me lightly, smiled at Sidonie. “You look splendid together.”
    We drank joie , danced and mingled with friends, sat at the laden table and dined together.
    As the hour of midnight drew nigh, the usual sense of anticipation mounted. There were no surprises this year. The horologist called the hour, and the great hall was plunged into darkness. The Winter Queen hobbled out of her false crag, leaning on a blackthorn staff.
    The Sun Prince entered in his chariot to a drumroll and resounding cheers, pointing his spear at her and restoring her to youth. The oil-soaked wicks were lit, light returning in a sudden blaze.
    Sidonie released her breath in a sigh. “I never tire of the spectacle.”
    “Neither do I.” I touched her cheek. “You are my sunlight, Sidonie. The sun in my sky and the moon in my heavens. All that’s bright and good in my life.” I smiled. “And a little bit that’s dark, too.”
    “You’re uncommonly sentimental,” she observed.
    “I’m uncommonly happy.” I spread my arms. “And a little bit drunk.”
    She laughed and caught my hand. “Dance with me.”
    Catching sight of us returning to the dance floor, one of the musicians grinned and gestured to his fellows. They switched smoothly into a slow, romantic melody. As we danced, I thought about all the Longest Nights I had known. I thought about the fact that a year ago, I’d been in Vralia. I thought about all the times I had danced with Sidonie.
    The first time, it had been on the Longest Night, too. That was when we’d bickered and I’d given her my oath on impulse.
    It seemed impossible now, remembering how formal and careful we had been with one another. Sidonie had held me at a distance. I’d scarce touched her. Later, after we’d become lovers, we’d struggled to recapture that sense of cool formality. At the fête for her seventeenth birthday, we’d tripped over one another’s feet, absurdly awkward in our efforts to disguise how well our bodies knew one another, how well we moved together.
    It made me laugh aloud to remember it.
    “What’s funny?” Sidonie asked.
    “Nothing.” I whirled her. “Only that I love you.”
    She smiled. “Oh, that. ’Tis enough to make the gods laugh.”
    Now it was the Longest Night, and it was a simple, blessed pleasure to hold her in my arms with no barriers between us—no mistrust, no awkwardness, no pretense. The music swooped and swirled in long, poignant arcs. We danced effortlessly. Tomorrow the world of politics and its burdens would be awaiting us. Tonight there was only music and joie.
    And us.
    The song ended, and another began. We stood without moving; night and day, reflecting one another. Sidonie gazed up at me. “‘The lover showers kisses on the face of the beloved’,” she quoted softly from the Trois Milles Joies.
    “‘Like petals falling in a summer rain’,” I finished, kissing her.
    “Whore!”
    The epithet was harsh and shocking. A violin screeched to a halt. A very drunken lord costumed as a Tiberian imperator staggered onto the dance floor, his purple-edged robes disheveled, a laurel wreath askew on his dark hair.
    “Whore!” he repeated, spitting the word at Sidonie. “You robbed me for his sake.
    Everyone knows.”
    Sidonie’s guards were trying to push through the throng, but