"We'll go afterward," Joscelin suggested. "It's right here in the City."

Afterward, I had had hopes of wallowing in tangled bedsheets with Sidonie. I toyed with a hunk of honey-smeared bread. "Seems an odd spot to germinate seeds."

"It's just a trial. If it works, he'll build a larger system in Siovale." Joscelin tapped the table. "You know, Drustan told me about a place in Alba where the springs run warm as blood, summer and winter alike. If Lord Tibault's method works, you might replicate it there. Think of it! A hypocaust that needs no fuel."

All Siovalese are mad for inventions. Joscelin, born and bred in the mountains of Siovale, was no exception. I drizzled more honey on my bread, watching it coil and dissolve in a puddle of amber-gold. "If it's an Alban spring, like as not it's sacred." I'd learned a few things from my studies.

"Still," Joscelin said dryly. "I'd like you to come."

I glanced up at his tone. Unless we were sparring, there was very little Joscelin asked of me. And I owed him a debt I could never repay.

"All right." I set down my bread and squared my shoulders. "Yes, of course."

We spent the better part of the afternoon in a building on the outskirts of the City marketplace, where some enterprising D'Angeline merchant had thought to build a bath in the Tiberian style. The venture had failed, but the Marquis de Toluard had purchased the building and converted the hypocaust to his own purposes.

"See!" he crowed, pointing to the etiolated seedlings sprouting in the trenches of rich soil. "If it works, we'll gain weeks. A month, mayhap."

Joscelin poked at a seedling with a dubious finger. "It wants sunlight, my lord."

"I know." The Marquis steered him to the far end of the trenches, where a patch of daylight bathed the seedlings. "See, here..."

His voice trailed away, or at least, I stopped listening. While Joscelin and Lord Tibault debated the merits of his system and whether the benefits of an early harvest outweighed the cost of charcoal to fuel the hypocaust, I lost myself in a pleasant memory of Sidonie crouched between my thighs, performing the languisement. Elua knows how, but the incident at Bryony House had reached her ears and we'd made a wager, both of us laughing about it. I'd lost the moment I saw her delicate pink lips engulf the head of my phallus, sliding down the shaft to meet her clutching fist. The mere sight was enough to drive me over the edge.

I'd paid my debt in kisses, tasting my seed on her tongue, thick and salty.

"...percentage of seedlings don't take root-" Joscelin gave me a funny look. "Imri?"

I shook myself, praying I hadn't groaned aloud. "Oh, yes. I'm listening."

"Ha!" Tibault de Toluard clapped me on the back. "Daydreaming of love, young highness? I remember it well, those days." He patted my shoulders. "Enjoy, enjoy. May she or he be worthy of your reveries."

"Thank you, my lord," I murmured.

Joscelin didn't comment, or at least not then. It wasn't until the ride home when he suggested we share a jug of ale at the Cockerel. Emile greeted us with effusive joy. At Joscelin's request, he secured us a quiet table in the corner, backing away with a finger to his lips and elaborate promises of discretion.

"So." Joscelin poured two foaming mugs of ale and shoved one toward me. "Shall we talk about it? Phedre and I drew lots, and I lost."

"Truly?" I asked, scandalized.

"No, of course not." He hid a half-smile with a sip of ale. "Well, the part about talking, yes. Since you didn't bring it to her, we both thought mayhap it would be best if I pressed the issue. Love, is it?"

I took a long drink. "Joscelin, would you believe me if I told you you'd rather not know?"

"I would," he said. "Trouble is, I already do." When I didn't say anything, Joscelin continued. "According to Ti-Philippe, there's gossip among the Palace Guard that you've been dallying with one of the Dauphine's ladies-in-waiting," he said, and I relaxed. Joscelin raked me with a sharp gaze. "And the trouble with that, love, is that Phedre doesn't believe it."

"Oh," I said faintly. "Why ever not?"

Joscelin shrugged and sipped his ale. "Naamah's business. She's known the young lady's mother for a long time. Exactly what they've concocted between them, I couldn't say, except that Phedre's certain the lady in question wouldn't engage in casual dalliance. And therefore, based on your strange and secretive behavior, my love, she has conceived the sort of outrageous notion that I would discredit in a heartbeat if I hadn't spent half my life watching Phedre no Delaunay's outrageous notions proved true."

I looked away. "What makes you think it's casual?"

"I don't," he said. "Not by the way you're carrying on. I also don't think it's Amarante of Namarre you're mooning over." Joscelin waited until I looked reluctantly back at him. Puzzlement and disbelief were etched on his face as he lowered his voice to a scarce audible murmur. "Imriel...Sidonie?"

I groaned and put my head down on the table. "Oh, Joscelin!"

"Elua's Balls! It's true?"

I clutched my hair. "Yes."

"Why?" He sounded as though he was trying not to laugh. "Name of Elua, Imri! Why?"

Dragging myself upright in my chair, I poured out the story to him, starting with last year's boar hunt, the spooked horse, and Sidonie's laughter. I'd not told anyone but Mavros, and once I started, the words tumbled out. Joscelin listened to me in a state of bemused awe, periodically glancing around to ensure that Emile's assurance of discretion was holding.

"Are you quite sure we're talking about the same person?" he asked dubiously as I rambled on about how passionate, uninhibited, and devastatingly funny she was. His voice dropped again. "Sidonie de la Courcel? The Dauphine of Terre d'Ange?"

"You don't know her," I said helplessly.

"So it seems." Joscelin refilled my cup. "You know, her mother has a fierce temper, and one rarely sees that in public. The women of House Courcel have learned to keep a sharp check on their emotions. I suppose..." He shook his head. "You do know this is a disaster in the making?"

"I know." I stared into my ale. "We both do."

"Then why-"

"I can't help it!" I jerked my head up. "I can't."

Joscelin sighed. He looked at me for a long time, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. "And are you planning to do aught foolish, love? Like break your word to the Queen in the matter of Alba?"

I'd thought about it. I thought about it every day. "No. I don't know."

"All right." Joscelin swirled the ale in his cup. Elsewhere in the tavern, there were Tsingani laughing and chatting. Someone was playing a timbale. "Imriel, we will stand by you whatever you choose," he said in his direct manner. "Know that, but listen, too. You asked me once how I could bear it; knowing what Phedre is. Knowing how different we are, knowing we're so ill suited it must make the gods laugh. Knowing it, and choosing it anyway. Do you remember what I told you?"

"I remember." I knew what he was hinting at, though I didn't much like it. "You said you'd tried doing without her."

"Even so." There was sympathy in his summer-blue eyes. "Believe me, love, I know your childhood was stolen. I know that in some ways, you haven't been young since you were ten years old. This isn't one of them. You're very young, and so is she. She doesn't even gain her majority for, what? Two more years?"

"She's seventeen in a few weeks."

"A little over a year, then." Joscelin put one gauntleted hand on my arm. "Imri, if it's real, it will endure."

"How would you know?" I asked, then colored. Still, I kept going. "It's not the same, Joscelin! You left of your own will."

"Indeed." He raised his brows. "Whereupon your mother had two of our companions slaughtered and Phedre thrown into a dungeon so dire that sailors believe it god-cursed. The worst thing you'll have to worry about is that your love will prove inconstant and fickle. Which would you prefer?"

"I take your point," I muttered.

"Good," Joscelin said. He squeezed my arm and released it. "And if a year passes and you both feel the same way, at least she'll have gained her majority. If she wants to defy her mother and the peerage, she'll have the legal standing to do so. And if you want leave Alba to be with her, Elua knows, Phedre and I will move heaven and earth for you."

I smiled a little. "Promise?"

"Against my better judgment, yes." Joscelin smiled back at me. "You know, in a way, it makes my heart glad to see you like this. There was a time I wasn't sure..." His voice faded and I knew we were both thinking about Daranga. Butchery in the festal hall, the screams of dying women, blood running in channels between the flagstones.

"I know," I said softly. "You, too."

"Elua's grace is a mysterious thing," he murmured. "Still...Sidonie?"

I laughed. "Strange to say, yes." I tipped my cup and downed the last swallow. "Joscelin, is love supposed to make you feel like you're sick and dying, and mad enough to hit someone, and drunk with joy, and your heart's a boulder in your chest trying to burst into a thousand pieces, all at once?"

"Mm-hmm." He finished his ale. "That would be love."

Chapter Eleven.

I told Sidonie about my conversation with Joscelin, or at least parts of it. Apart from my single declaration, we still hadn't spoken openly about love.Alarm flashed in her eyes. "He's not going to say anything, is he?"

"No, of course not." I regarded her. "Sidonie, truly. What do you think would happen if we were found out?"

"Truly?" She thought about it. "I think my mother would dismiss Amarante and anyone in else my retinue likely to be the least bit sympathetic. I think she would lock me in my quarters and give me a lecture that blistered my ears, double my guard and fill it with men loyal to her and order them to report on my whereabouts every minute of the day. I think she would pack you off to Alba on the next ship." Sidonie gave me a level look. "And I think my uncle would try to have you killed at the first opportunity."

"I see." Her tone chilled my blood. "Why on earth does he hate me so much? On the long list of people with reason to bear grudges against Melisande Shahrizai's son, he's nowhere near the top."

"No," she said slowly. "He's a strange man and an ambitious one. I think he conceived a plan in Khebbel-im-Akkad to create a dynasty for House L'Envers with ties to other powerful nations. But he didn't know my great-grandfather was plotting the same thing with Alba until it was too late and his daughter was already wed to the Khalif's son. Which, in the end, gained him very little here in Terre d'Ange and cost him his best pawn."

"So his plan failed. Come here." I tugged her down beside me on the bed. "Still, it's nothing to do with me."

"No, I know." Sidonie nestled against me. "I don't know, Imriel. It all happened so long before either of us were born."

"It's not fair, is it?" I murmured.

"To you least of all." She took my hand and kissed it, then placed it on her chest. Beneath her soft, warm skin I could feel the steady beat of her heart under my palm. Her dark, lustrous eyes were filled with unwavering trust. "Truly? I think it simply drives him mad to think that after all the spectacular failure of your mother's schemes, you're two heartbeats away from inheriting the throne."

"But I don't want it," I said. "Just you."

Sidonie smiled sadly. "It's a hard case to prove."

"We could demonstrate," I suggested, and she laughed and kissed me until we forgot all about Barquiel L'Envers and the disapproving world beyond the door of the bedchamber, making oblivious love until Amarante had to interrupt us to summon her mistress to dine with the Queen, standing over the bed where we lay sweating and entangled until we realized she was there. It had happened more than the once, enough times that I'd lost all traces of self-consciousness about it. Sidonie had never had any, not here.

"I swear to Elua, Sidonie, someone ought to dowse you with cold water," Amarante said mildly. "Both of you."

"You don't mean that." Sidonie extricated herself from the bed, and I lay watching her. She had a deft way of moving, quick and graceful. "And anyway, haven't you heard? I've got ice water in my veins."

Amarante raised her brows. "Appearances are deceiving."

It was common wisdom at Court. I'd believed it, too. I remembered the first time I'd danced with Sidonie. Mind you don't get chilblains, Eamonn had said, and I'd laughed. Now, it merely drove me mad and heightened my desire, knowing the depth of wanton abandonment that lurked beneath her cool exterior.

It made me proud of her, too. That was another strange thing about this business of love. All the things that had once irritated me-her imperious manner at Court, her infuriatingly self-possessed demeanor, her dislike of climbing trees-filled me with tender affection.

A bewildering thing, love.

I talked to Phedre about it. It was a relief, knowing that she knew. I thought surely she would be filled with sage advice, since surely if there was anyone in the world who knew about love in all its myriad forms, it was Phedre.

On that count, I was wrong. She only laughed. "There's nothing I could tell you about love that you'd believe without learning it for yourself, Imri."

"But you weren't surprised," I said.

"About Sidonie?" Phedre shook her head. "I grew up in the Night Court. Even as children, we heard stories about patrons. By the time I entered Delaunay's service, there was precious little that would surprise me when it came to desire. And you..." She sighed. "Ah, love! The first thing you did when we emerged from the zenana was fling yourself headlong into danger. Why should this be any different?"

I fidgeted at her feet. "It is, though."

"I know." She stroked my hair, her voice gentle. "You still worry me, that's all."

"Phedre?" I craned my head to look at her. "Did you love my mother?"

In all the years I'd been a part of her household, I'd never dared to ask. Her stroking fingers went still. "Love would be an odd word for it," she mused. "And yet, in the end, yes. Although I hated her, too." Phedre propped her chin in her hand and contemplated me. "There was no one else quite like her. Betimes I think the qualities that made her monstrous might have vaulted her to greatness in other circumstances."

"Am I like her?" I asked.

"Well, you've a conscience," she said dryly. "That's one difference. And I don't know that your mother ever did aught impetuous in her life, whereas you..." Phedre smiled. "You're another matter."

"I'm not impetuous!" I protested.

"Oh, no?" Phedre tweaked a lock of my hair. "Truly, Imri? Yes, a little. In a roomful of people, your mother shone. It's naught to do with beauty. For good or for ill, some people seem to love more fiercely, want more powerfully, burn more brightly. She had profound desires and an indomitable will. I see glimpses of that in you."

I swallowed. "I see."

"Does that frighten you?" she asked.

"A little," I said truthfully.

"Ah, love! It's only a part." She smoothed my mussed hair. "In her own unfathomable way, your mother had a good deal of integrity. I see that in you, too."

"I keep my promises," I murmured. Locked away in a cabinet in her study, Phedre kept a note with those words on it, alongside a diamond on a frayed velvet cord, an ivory hairpin, and a figurine of a jade dog.

"Even so." Having adjusted my hair to her satisfaction, Phedre kissed the top of my head. "And there's so much more that's yours, and yours alone, most of all a kind heart and a generous spirit. And rather more courage than I'd like, when you come to it," she added. "I'm not altogether sanguine about your adventures in Lucca, and I know you've not told me the half of them."

I laughed. "Eamonn told me his mother said you were the bravest person she'd ever met."

"Did she?" Phedre, who had walked into the living hell of Daranga-a place the most hardened Akkadian soldiers held in dread-of her own volition to rescue me, smiled. "Ah, well. 'Tis a different sort of courage. You've not had word from him, have you?"

"Eamonn?" I shook my head, feeling guilty. "No, not yet." Although he was my dearest friend in the world, I'd been too caught up in my own affairs to spare much thought for him. I fidgeted with the dagger-sheath strapped to my left leg. "Before he left for Skaldia, he promised he'd try to come for my wedding."

"Here or in Alba?"

I shrugged. The rites would be held in both places. I was to wed Dorelei mab Breidaia in the D'Angeline fashion here in Terre d'Ange. At the summer's end, we would sail to Alba, where we would be wed in a Cruithne ritual for all of royal Alba to witness. Thus far, outside of my conversations with the Queen, I'd done a good job avoiding thinking about either. Even now, it gave me a horrible pang of loss and longing. "Here, I suppose. I didn't know about the other when last we spoke."