Naamah's Blessing

as I possibly could. I tried… I tried to make it
right
for her. Does that sound terrible?”
    “No,” I said. “And you did.”
    Bao turned his hands this way and that, examining them. “Did I?”
    “Aye.” I caught his hands in mine, capturing them firmly. Naamah’s gift stirred in me, lending me a sense of surety. I slid my hands up his lean-muscled forearms, marked with the stark zig-zag tattoos that showed the path to Kurugiri; and higher, sliding my hands up his wiry biceps, his skin slick with rain, his muscles shifting and twitching beneath my touch. “You did, Bao.”
    Lowering my head, I kissed him.
    After a few heartbeats, he returned my kiss like a man drowning, desperate and fervent, and I felt Naamah’s blessing wash over us, desire rising in a fierce spiral.
    I wound my arms around his neck and pressed myself against him, aching nipples taut beneath my soaked robe. It was a blessed relief when his hands found my breasts, caressing and kneading them.
    We tumbled over onto the rain-washed terrace, my soaked hair curtaining both our faces. Even the rain felt like a blessing.
    “Moirin…” Whatever Bao wanted to say, he couldn’t find the words. It didn’t matter. The look in his eyes was eloquent enough.
    “I know,” I said, reaching for him. “I do. And it’s all right. Everything is going to be all right.”
    Everything was.

EIGHTY-FOUR

    T he day of Thierry de la Courcel’s coronation dawned clear and sunny, the world made bright and new by the cleansing rain. Bao and I awoke entangled in damp, disheveled linens, having made love both outdoors and in bed.
    Bao rolled onto his back, folded his arms behind his head, and smiled sleepily at me. Although his hair was sticking up in a dozen different directions, his face was calm and peaceful. “You look very beautiful this morning.”
    I leaned over to kiss him. “And you look… messy. Come, time to prepare. We’re escorting Desirée; you don’t want to be late.”
    “They’ll wait for us. We’re heroes of the realm, Moirin.” He yawned, then grinned. “Not bad for a peasant-boy and a girl who grew up in a cave, huh?”
    “No.” I kissed him again, then sat back on my heels. “Not bad at all, my magpie. Are you feeling better today?”
    “Much better.” Bao met my gaze, his expression softening. “Thank you.”
    Rising, I yanked the linens off him. “You’re welcome. And you can thank me by not making us late.”
    Within an hour’s time, we presented ourselves at Court, where the mood was glad but harried. Having passed the night in vigil, Thierry was already at the Temple of Elua where the coronation was to take place, but an ill-considered breakfast of honey-drizzled oatcakes hadresulted in a sticky smear on Desirée’s gown and delayed her departure. She stood wide-eyed and fearful, clad in a thin silk shift, while Sister Gemma scrubbed at the stain.
    “I didn’t mean to, Moirin!” Desirée said anxiously. “I’m sorry, I was
trying
to be careful. Have I ruined everything?”
    “No, of course not.” I glanced at Sister Gemma, now blowing assiduously on the damp spot. The priestess gave me a quick shake of her head, assuring me it wasn’t she who had fed the child’s fears. That was a legacy courtesy of Claudine de Barthelme and Jehanne’s despised mother. “A hot iron will dry it in a trice.”
    “Of course it will,” Sister Gemma murmured half to herself. “A hot iron. Forgive me, my lady, I wasn’t thinking.”
    “It’s a big day,” Bao said cheerfully, perching on a child-sized chair beside Desirée’s miniature desk. “Come, young highness, and give me a lesson to refresh my memory. I fear I’ve forgotten my D’Angeline letters. Don’t worry,” he added to Desirée in a confidential tone. “They’ll wait for us. We’re heroes of the realm, you know.”
    A quicksilver smile graced her exquisite face, a hint of mischief in it evoking a memory of her mother. “I
know
!”
    I watched them with their heads bent together over a slate, Bao’s half-tamed shock of black hair contrasting with Desirée’s white-gold curls as she solemnly traced the letters of the alphabet and repeated them to him, the fellow student turned teacher.
    “A pretty picture,” Sister Gemma said quietly, applying a warm iron to the damp stain on the child’s white satin gown.
    I smiled. “Aye.”
    “Have you—?”
    I shook my head. “No. But soon. In Alba, I hope.”
    She plied her iron. “That seems