Naamah's Blessing

espoused?”
    “The Church of Yeshua Ascendant.” I watched him write down the words, his pen scratching over the paper, adding further notes to those he had already taken. “My lord?”
    “Hmm?” He glanced up as though surprised to see me there. “Oh, my pardon. You may go.”
    “Thank you, my lord,” I said politely. “But I had another purpose in requesting an audience. Begging your kindness, I would accept your offer of a suite of rooms at the Palace.”
    “Ah.” A look of dismay settled over his features. “Elua, forgive me, Moirin! The Comte de Rochambeau decided at the last minute to winter in the City instead of the country. He is an old friend, and I offered him lodging at the Palace.” The Duc de Barthelme gave a helpless shrug. “Messire Lambert has advised me it was the last unoccupied suite in the Palace.”
    I eyed him without speaking.
    “I did not think you would have a change of heart so soon,” Rogier Courcel apologized—but I detected a note of smoothness beneath the seeming sincerity of his tone. He had practiced this exchange in his thoughts. “Of course, I can order the Comte and his family evicted.”
    “I do not think that gesture would be well received,” I said slowly. “Do you?”
    He frowned with regret. “Likely not.”
    My skin prickled, and I thought to myself, I have made an enemy of this man all unwitting. The Royal Minister, his majesty’s chosen appointee; my father’s lover, the companion of his youth. Unlike the former King’s Poet, he harbors ambitions he is only just beginning to realize.
    I met his dark blue gaze.
    He held mine steadily, blinking only a little bit. “I
am
so very sorry, Lady Moirin.”
    I rose. “Think nothing of it, my lord.”
    It wasn’t until evening that I had a chance to discuss the day’s events with Bao, who had spent the afternoon at Eglantine House, coaching their tumblers on Ch’in techniques and meeting with the mistress of wardrobe and the master of props to advise them. He was in good spirits, filled with excitement over planning for the coming spectacle.
    “Tomorrow I will meet with the master of percussion,” he informed me. “Antoine does not think he has such drums as I described, but he agrees that it would be a very fine effect.”
    I smiled, glad to see Bao in such a cheerful mood. “Oh, he does, does he?”
    “Oh, yes. It is only a question of getting them made in time.” He folded his arms behind his head. “Also, there have been a dozen applicants for the post of Desirée’s nurse. It will take time to speak with all of them and find the right one. We have a lot to do, huh?”
    “That we do, my magpie.” I leaned over to kiss him. “Lianne Tremaine has advised me that we had best find ourselves a more permanent residence within the City, so that we do not appear a pair of romantic vagabonds.”
    Bao yawned. “Well, that minister fellow offered us rooms at the Palace.”
    “So he did,” I agreed. “But it seems that within a day’s time, he’s given them to someone else, and there are no other quarters available.”
    “That seems… sudden,” Bao said slowly.
    “I thought so, too.” Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I ran a boar-bristle brush through my hair. “I fear we may have made ourselves an enemy.”
    Frowning in thought, Bao sat up and took the brush from me. “Here, I’ll do it.” He knelt behind me and I let him take over, luxuriating in the sensation. “Maybe you are reading too much import into it.”
    I shook my head without thinking. “I could be, but I don’t think so.”
    Bao untangled the brush without comment, resuming his long, steady strokes. “How dangerous an enemy?”
    “I don’t know,” I admitted.
    “It’s a petty gesture,” he said. “Maybe he will be satisfied with it.”
    “I hope so,” I said. “But at any rate, we’ll need to find suitable quarters to rent. Oh, and to visit a couturiere. It seems our clothing is too foreign.”
    His hands slid beneath the silk folds of my sari to find the bare skin of my waist, the brush forgotten. “I
like
your Bhodistani clothing,” he whispered in my ear. “I do not want you wearing D’Angeline gowns that prick your skin.”
    I leaned against Bao’s chest, feeling the strange yet familiar intimacy of our
diadh-anams
entwining at the contact. “Well, then, we will have to commission clothing that does not prick.”
    Bao’s hands slid higher, over the fine linen undershirt I wore beneath the sari,