"Yes." I peered over her shoulder. Her gown was cut low enough in back that I could see her marque, intricate patterns of pale green vines and night-blue flowers twining up her spine, etched into her fair skin by the marquist’s needle. It was nearly done. In another patron-gift or two, she would be able to complete it. With a last blossom to shape the finial at the nape of her neck, Suriah would have made her marque. After that, her debt to Naamah and the Dowayne alike was reckoned paid and she was free to leave Cereus House, if she willed it, or remain and tithe a portion of her fees to the House. She was nineteen, my mother’s age. "Suriah, what’s a Tsingano?"
"One of the travellers, the Tsingani." Drawing a comb through my wet curls, she made a moue of distaste, the frown that leaves no unpleasant lines. "What have you to do with them?"
"Nothing." I fell silent, submitting to her care. If the Dowayne’s guards had said nothing, neither would I, for the keeping of secrets from adults is oft the only power a child may hope to possess.
In due course, I was groomed and made ready to meet Delaunay. As a child, of course, I was not painted, but my clean skin was lightly powdered and my shining, fresh-washed hair dressed with ribbons. Jareth Moran himself, the Dowayne’s Second, came to fetch me to the audience. Awed, I clutched his hand and trotted beside him. He smiled down at me, once or twice.
We met not in the courtyard, but in the Dowayne’s receiving room, an inner chamber with gracious appointments, designed for conversation and comfort alike.
There was a kneeling cushion set before the two chairs. Jareth released my hand as we entered, moving smoothly to stand at his post behind the Dowayne’s chair. I scarce had time to glance at the two figures before I took my position, kneeling abeyante before them. The Dowayne, I knew; of Anafiel Delaunay, I had only an impression of lean height and russet hues before I knelt with bowed head and clasped hands.
For a long moment, there was only silence. I sat on my heels, hands clasped before me, itching in every particle of my being to look up and not daring to do so.
"She is a comely child," I heard at length spoken in a bored voice; a man’s rich tenor, cultivated, but with the lack of modulation that only nobles can afford to display. I know this now, because Delaunay taught me to listen for such things. Then, I thought merely that he disliked me. "And the incident you describe intrigues. But I see nothing to intrigue me overmuch, Miriam. I’ve a pupil in hand these two years past; I’m not looking for another."
"Phèdre."
My head jerked up at the command in the old Dowayne’s tone and I stared at her wide-eyed. She was looking at Delaunay and smiling faintly, so I transferred my gaze to him.
Anafiel Delaunay sat at his ease, canted languidly, elbow propped on the arm of the chair, contemplating me with his chin on his hand. He had very fine D’Angeline features, long and mobile, with long-lashed grey eyes flecked with topaz. His hair was a pleasing shade of ginger, and he wore a velvet doublet of deep brown. His only adornment was a fine chain of chased gold-work. His sleeves were russet, a hint of topaz silk gleaming in the slashes. He stretched his well-turned legs out lazily, clad in rich brown, the heel of one highly polished boot propped on the toe of the other.
And as he studied me, his booted heel dropped to the floor with a thud.
"Elua’s Balls!" He gave a bark of laughter that startled me. I saw Jareth and the Dowayne exchange a quick glance. Delaunay unfolded himself from the chair in one smooth, elegant motion, lowering himself to one knee before me. He took my face in both hands. "Do you know what mark you bear, little Phèdre?"
His voice had turned caressing and his thumbs stroked my cheekbones, perilously close to my eyes. I quivered between his hands like a rabbit in a trap, longing…longing for him to do something, something terrible, fearful that he would, rigid with suppressing it.
"No," I breathed.
He took his hands away, touching my cheek briefly in reassurance, and stood. "Kushiel’s Dart," he said, and laughed. "You’ve an anguissette on your hands, Miriam; a true anguissette. Look at the way she trembles, even now, caught between fear and desire."
"Kushiel’s Dart." There was an echo of uncertainty in Jareth’s voice. The Dowayne sat unmoving, her expression shrewd. Anafiel Delaunay crossed to the side table and poured himself a glass of cordial uninvited.
"You should keep better archives," he said, amused, then spoke in a deeper voice. " ‘Mighty Kushiel, of rod and weal/Late of the brazen portals/With blood-tipp’d dart a wound unhealed/Pricks the eyen of chosen mortals.’ " His voice returned to its conversational tone. "From the marginalia of the Leucenaux version of the Eluine Cycle, of course."
"Of course," the Dowayne murmured, composed. "Thank you so much, Anafiel. Jean-Baptiste Marais at Valerian House will be gratified to learn it."
Delaunay raised one eyebrow. "I do not say that the adepts of Valerian House are unskilled in the arts of algolagnia, Miriam, but how long has it been since they’ve had a true anguissette under their roof?"
"Too long."
Her tone was honey-sweet, but butter wouldn’t melt in the old woman’s mouth. I watched, fascinated and forgotten. I wanted desperately for Anafiel Delaunay to prevail. He had laid his poet’s hands on me and changed my very nature, transformed the prick of my unworth to a pearl of great price. Only Melisande Shahrizai ever named what I was so surely and swiftly; but that was later, and a different matter. As I watched, Delaunay shrugged eloquently.
"Do it, and she’ll go to waste; another whipping-toy for the ham-fisted sons of merchants. I can make of her such a rare instrument that princes and queens will be moved to play exquisite music upon her."
"Except, of course, that you already have a pupil."
"Indeed." He drank off his cordial at one draught, set down the glass and leaned against the wall, folded his arms across his chest, smiling. "I am willing, for the sake of Kushiel’s Dart, to consider a second. Have you set a bond-price?"
The Dowayne licked her lips, and I rejoiced to see her tremble at bargaining with him, even as my mother had trembled before her. This time, when she named a price, there was no surety in her voice.
It was high, higher than any bond-price set in my years at Cereus House. I heard Jareth draw in his breath softly.
"Done," Anafiel Delaunay said promptly, straightening with a negligent air. "I’ll have my steward draw up the papers in the morning. She’ll foster here until the age of ten as customary, yes?"
"As you wish, Anafiel." The Dowayne bowed her head to him. I could see, from my kneeling perspective, how she bit her cheek in ire at having set the bond-price so low he didn’t even deign to barter. "We shall send for you upon the tenth anniversary of her birth."
And with that, my future was decided.
Chapter Four
Life within the Night Court was ever a closed society, and I would have left it with Anafiel Delaunay the moment the bargain was struck, had he allowed it; but he did not want me, not yet. I was too young.
Since I was to go into the service of a friend of the royal court, I must reflect well upon Cereus House, and the Dowayne gave orders to ensure I received proper instruction. Reading and elocution were added to my curriculum, and in my eighth year I began to learn the rudiments of the Caerdicci tongue, the language of scholars.
No one expected to make a scholar of me, of course, but it was rumored that Delaunay had attended the University of Tiberium in his youth, and he had a name as an educated man. He must not find embarrassment in a child fostered at Cereus House.