Kushiel's Mercy

bring myself to do it.
    “Show me,” Sidonie said, eyes sparkling.
    I did.
    There in the meadow, I plaited long stalks of grass. I stroked her soft skin and bade her to keep still and quiet, rewarding her with kisses when she obeyed, punishing her with the quirt when she didn’t. The memory stirred all that old, aching adolescent yearning, banishing the fear that had accompanied it. I ended up tumbling her there in the meadow, the sun warm on my naked back, the sweet scent of bruised grass rising all around us.
    We rode home adorned with wreaths of flowering bindweed vine, butterflies trailing in our wake, members of the Dauphine’s Guard following at a discreet distance. At times like that, it almost seemed it would be worthwhile to give up the quest in favor of a flawed joy. To allow Sidonie to step down, to return to the City of Elua and say to Ysandre, Forgive me. It’s too hard, too much to ask.
    We didn’t, though.
    Instead, we chose a puppy; or I did, in consultation with old Artus Labbé, the kennel master, who would see to the pup’s training. We spent time with Phèdre and Joscelin, who had elected to accompany us. There at Montrève, with no duties to attend to, no constant presence of judging eyes, Sidonie was more at ease. I saw them begin to see her as I did. Not so much Phèdre—Elua knows, there wasn’t much hidden from her—but Joscelin.
    One night, after much pleading on my part, he reenacted a famous performance from the time he had been disguised as a travelling Mendacant with Phèdre and Hyacinthe. He hadn’t done it since I was a boy. We all laughed until we wept. And when we had done, I prevailed on Sidonie to re-create an imagined scene from the youthful courtship of Ysandre and Drustan, somewhat she and Alais had concocted between them as children.
    It was wickedly funny—Sidonie had a knack for mimicry. She emulated her mother at her coolest, uttering declarations of undying passion and high-minded romance in a crisp, exacting tone, until even Joscelin was wiping his eyes.
    “I think I begin to understand,” he said to me that night.
    “You ought to,” Phèdre said in her mild way. “When all’s said and done, she’s a bit like you , love.”
    It was true, although I’d never thought on it. Sidonie’s habitual composure was as much a part of her as Joscelin’s Cassiline discipline. When it was laid aside, it could be an unexpectedly delightful thing. And yet she was a bit like Phèdre, too. Not an anguissette , no. I don’t think I could have borne it. But she was fearless in her desires, and utterly unapologetic.
    Gods, those were good times.
    When we returned to the City of Elua, there was another glad surprise awaiting us.
    Amarante of Namarre, who had served as a lady-in-waiting, among other things, to Sidonie for a number of years, had returned to take service in the Temple of Naamah.
    Her mother was a priestess and the head of Naamah’s Order. During the year she had been gone, Amarante had been fulfilling her own final duties before taking her vows. She had spent a year wandering Terre d’Ange, serving Naamah. Now she was back, and a priestess in her own right.
    Mavros threw a fête in her honor, staging it to accord with our return.
    He had long maintained an obsession with Amarante, which I knew. I do believe he genuinely liked her. I also knew that he had sought her out once her term of Naamah’s Service had begun. What had passed between them, no one knew for certain. I knew what Amarante had predicted, because Sidonie had told me.
    It won’t be what he wants, Amarante had said. But it will leave him wanting more.
    More than that, Sidonie hadn’t cared to know.
    It was the first time I found myself jealous; and to my surprise, there was a certain smoldering pleasure in it. I’d known about Amarante for a long time. In some ways, her claim superseded mine; she had been recruited to instruct Sidonie in Naamah’s arts. And she had done a damnably good job of it. Still, it stung to see Sidonie’s eyes sparkle for someone else, even if that someone had shining hair the color of apricots, apple-green eyes, and plump lips for kissing.
    “I’ve missed you,” Sidonie murmured.
    “Oh?” There was a teasing undertone to Amarante’s reply, although it was uttered with her usual unearthly calm, which had only deepened during her absence. “I’d hardly thought you’d have time.”
    Sidonie laughed, and said somewhat too low for anyone else to