Naamah's Blessing

banned once upon a time. Use whatever resources are available to you, Moirin.”
    “Why are you aiding me?” I asked him.
    “I’m not sure,” he said in a thoughtful manner. “Except that we do share one thing in common.”
    “Reviled ancestors?”
    “Yes.” He touched my cheek briefly with cold, cold fingertips. “I wish you luck, Moirin.”
    With that, he took his leave of us.
    “So!” Bao put his arm over my shoulders and breathed the Breath of Embers Glowing, generating heat throughout his body. Fire had always been the element he favored most. I leaned in to his strength and warmth. “Eglantine House?”
    “Aye,” I agreed. “Eglantine House.”

TEN

    E glantine House.
    It sat midway upon the slope of Mont Nuit, where the Thirteen Houses of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, commonly known as the Night Court, was situated. I had only ever visited one of them before—Cereus House, oldest of the thirteen, renowned for celebrating the ephemeral nature of beauty.
    It was where Jehanne had been born and raised, trained to become the foremost courtesan of her age—and also where she had first seduced me. It was an elegant, gracious place.
    Eglantine House was different, very different. There they celebrated artistic genius in all its forms, and even the architecture itself reflected the nature of the House. It was an exuberant mixture of styles, with soaring arches and cunningly wrought turrets, built with stone of subtly contrasting hues that somehow managed to achieve a pleasing and harmonious whole.
    A handsome young adept with red-gold hair and a dancer’s slim muscles opened the door. The sound of music spilled out, and somewhere a lone woman’s voice rose above it in an exquisite cadence.
    The adept took one look at us, and grinned. “Lady Moirin mac Fainche, and Messire… Bao, is it?”
    I smiled at the welcome. “It is.”
    “Come in, come in!” He gave us both the kiss of greeting, usheringus inside. “Welcome to Eglantine House! How may we delight you today? Song? Poetry? Tumbling?”
    “Tumbling?” Bao looked interested.
    “Oh, yes!” The adept nodded enthusiastically. “The finest acrobats in Terre d’Ange are trained here. Are you an afficionado?”
    “Ah…”
    “Are you fond of it,” I clarified for Bao’s sake, adding to the young fellow, “Bao was trained as an acrobat.”
    “In Ch’in?” The adept widened his hazel eyes.
    “It was a long time ago,” Bao said in an offhand manner. “But we are not here to see tumbling. We are here to see the lady poetess.”
    “Oh.” He seemed disappointed. “I will send for Mademoiselle Tremaine, of course.” He beckoned, and two charming attendants who couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen hurried over. “Wine for our guests, and a summons to Mademoiselle Tremaine.”
    “I would not
mind
seeing the tumblers,” Bao said to me. “Later, of course.”
    I shrugged. “Why not?”
    “I can arrange a performance,” the adept said eagerly. “Or, or… Messire Bao, if you are interested, mayhap we could learn from one another. No one has ever seen a tumbler from Ch’in.” He sketched an apologetic bow. “I do not mean to presume, but it would be a pleasure. By the way, I am Antoine nó Eglantine, the Dowayne’s second. And if there is anything I may offer you to enhance your visit, please do not hesitate to inquire.”
    “My thanks,” I said to him.
    Antoine bowed again, more extravagantly. “Of course, my lady!”
    One of the little attendants returned with two glasses of wine on a silver tray, offering them with a pretty curtsy.
    “Terre d’Ange is more pleasant than I remembered it,” Bao remarked, sipping his wine.
    “
You
are more pleasant, my magpie,” I informed him. “It took me weeks to coax a smile from you. All it took Balthasar Shahrizai was one flirtatious comment.”
    Bao gave me a serene look. “Jealous?”
    “A little,” I admitted.
    He laughed.
    We sat on a cushioned bench in the foyer, drinking our wine and listening to the lovely songs coming from a nearby salon. It wasn’t long before Lianne Tremaine appeared.
    I stood without thinking.
    She halted a few paces away, regarding me uncertainly. The last time we had seen each other, a woman had died—poor Claire Fourcay, enamored of Raphael de Mereliot. Focalor, Grand Duke of the Fallen, had inhaled her life’s essence and breathed it into my lungs, forcing me to remain alive to keep the doorway between our world and