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I studied many things the winter that Delaunay set me on the path to the mystery of the Master of the Straits. Ancient Alban epics, treaties so brittle they crumbled under my careful fingers, books from as near as Siovale and as far as Tiberium. I pored over texts in D’Angeline, Cruithine, Caerdicci and, with a translating key provided by Delaunay, Habiru.
How many hours did I spend in that library, hunched over until my eyes ached and my fingers grew calloused from writing notes? Too many, too many to count, though like as not it was less than my exhausted mind fooled me to thinking. Yet of a surety, there were days when I entered the library before dawn and stayed long after the sun had set, occasionally waking to find a book still open beneath my cheek, a blanket draped over my shoulders, lines of text imprinted into my fair skin.
But I persisted, futilely seeking knowledge far beyond by reach. Delaunay had trusted me with a glimmer of insight into his plans, into the vast intelligence I tried so hard to understand. His trust inspired me, though, kept me going through the long nights and the cricking necks. More than once I had looked up from one ancient text or another to see him watching me, the barest hint of a smile playing around his eyes. And that smile, that shadow of a grin, brought a flush to my cheeks, causing me to duck my head down back to my work. Years of training with the finest courtesans in the City of Elua, and still Delaunay’s smile could reduce me to a blushing virgin.
It was on one of these late nights, as I translated lines of a Cruithine poem, that Delaunay rapped on the library door. I looked up, startled, to meet his amused eyes. “My lord,” I said, pushing back my chair.
He waved me back down. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, coming to lean over my work, settling one hand on my shoulder.
My skin tingled at his touch and I shook my head. “No, my lord. No interruptions.” I handed him my translation, watching his profile as he scanned it, his topaz-flecked eyes skimming my hastily-scrawled words.
“Very good,” he said, setting it down at last. “Though I have seen you write a fairer hand.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “I was rushing—“
“It wasn’t a reprimand.” Now he did smile, barely, his eyebrow quirking in bemusement. “The translation is excellent. I’d no idea you’d improved so much.”
“My lord is too kind,” I murmured, taking back the page and lifting my pen once more.
He was silent for a few moments and I thought he would go, turning my eyes back to the poem and making notations on a troublesome line here and there. But then I felt his fingers in my hair, playing lightly with the white strands. I closed my eyes, enjoying the touch. Contact between us had been scarce since the night I had my marque completed, when I pulled him down to me and didn’t let him go until morning. The distance wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was there nonetheless, and it pained me—not that I would ever let him know. “Alcuin,” he murmured, and I turned back to him.
“My lord?”
Our eyes met. There was something there, a crackling spark. I almost reached for him. Almost.
He withdrew his hand. “I’ve received an invitation,” he said abruptly, leaning against the table.
I ran a hand through my hair, pushing aside the flash of hurt that threatened to push its way onto my face. “An invitation?”
“From Cecilie Laveau-Perrin,” he said, half-absently, picking up another page of notes. “To her Midwinter Masque. Since Phèdre is already contracted for the Longest Night, I thought you’d like to accompany me.”
I glanced up at him. His face was impassive, something—something—hidden in his eyes, too well shielded for me to recognize. “As a member of your household, my lord?” I asked carefully, “or as a Servant of Naamah?”
It surprised him, I think, that I asked it so bluntly, but he smiled. “That remains to be seen,” he said, placing my notes back on the table. “I’ll send word to the clothier to discuss costumes.” I nodded and he reached out, tracing his fingertips down my cheek, his touch light as the brush of a feather on gossamer silk. And then he was gone, leaving me still and staring, the warmth of his fingers still lingering on my skin.
*
We went to Eglantine House.
They are experts in craft, the adepts of Eglantine, of all types of art—from the spoken to the written word, the delicacies of song, and, of course, the subtleties of clothing. Fashion is ever changing in the City—D’Angelines are nothing if not fickle in their clothing fads—and with the Longest Night approaching Eglantine House bustled with commissions, bolts of fabric and sketched designs tossed about here and there in perfectly organized chaos.
It was Gherin nó Eglantine who saw us, an old friend of Delaunay’s who made time in his schedule for a fitting and consultation. He gave us each the kiss of greeting, bidding us sit in his salon while he briefly reviewed several sketches with his apprentice, a fiery redhead with a scar curling her upper lip—I caught her name, Favrielle, in the snippets of their conversation.
At last Gherin returned to us, clapping his hands. “So!” he exclaimed, sitting down on the couch across from us. “Tell me, my lords, what it is you had in mind. Something relating you to one another, I trust?”
“Yes,” Delaunay said smoothly, “but preferably nothing too...” he glanced sidelong at me; I raised my eyebrows, amused. “Outrageous,” he finished, and I bit my lip to suppress a laugh. It was true—I was no Phèdre, to revel in the extraordinary. Simplicity, as the auction for my virgin-price had shown, suited me.
Gherin worried at a plump lower lip, reclining in his seat and regarding us contemplatively. “Given your reputation, my lord,” he said to Delaunay, “I would go with something classic. Easily recognizable, but not obviously so. And given the boy’s coloring...” he trailed off, eyeing me thoughtfully; I returned his gaze unperturbed. “Though you may not like it, my lord.”
Delaunay raised his eyebrows. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said calmly, shifting to sling an arm over the back of the couch. His fingertips brushed my shoulder and sent a shiver down my spine, and I closed my eyes to keep my body still. “What are you thinking?”
Gherin’s eyes shifted from me to Delaunay. “Hadrian and Antinous.”
Delaunay drew in a quick breath and I glanced at him, confused. The tale of the Tiberian Imperator who loved the shepherd boy was an old and common one, yet there was no mistaking the pain that flashed across his features. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a cynical smile. “I like it,” he said casually, reclining back. He glanced at me. “What do you think?”
“My lord,” I said honestly, “if you like it, I will by all means oblige.”
He regarded me for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. And then he turned to Gherin nó Eglantine, smiled, and said, “Well, then, Gherin, we will leave you to your work.”
*
There is a reason, in the City of Elua, that Gherin nó Eglantine is hailed as a genius. He is an artist, of a surety, and the human body is his canvas, fabric and threads his paints and brushes. I had seen his work before; the way he took a tired tale and brought it to life with subtle folds and drapery, color and dye. Of all the clothiers of Eglantine House he is the best, and I daresay he knew it; there was a quiet confidence to him, a sense of superiority lurking behind his genuine smile.
But he was the best, and so it was that on the evening of the Longest Night I found myself in front of the mirror in my chamber, staring breathless at my reflection, at the character who was me and yet not.
The costume itself was simple, as such things go: a short toga of white silk under a blue-and-green shepherd’s robe. The mask was plain as well, half-faced, covering my eyes and leaving the rest of my face bare. The eyes of the mask were limned in black, representing the charcoal Tiberian shepherds use to guard against the sun’s rays, and I picked up a piece of kohl to outline my own eyes, darkening my pale lashes and making them stark against my skin. I leaned over the mirror, sliding the mask over my face and reaching down to pick up the slim wooden staff that accompanied the costume.
There, and it was complete. Turning once more to the mirror I felt myself transformed, no longer Alcuin nó Delaunay but instead Antinous da Tiberium, a slender shepherd boy, innocent, smiling, peaceful with an underlying hint of sensuality. “Ah, Antinous,” I murmured, reaching out a hand to touch my reflection. “We are not so different, you and I.”
“How so?”
Delaunay’s voice from the doorway startled me, and I whirled to face him, shepherd’s robe swirling.
He stood lounging against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He was resplendent as the Imperator Hadrian, in a long white toga trimmed in violet and gold and belted at the waist, a scarlet cloak clasped around his neck. Atop his head sat a gilded helmet with a brilliant red plumage of feathers, the faceguard coming down to form his mask, shielding all but his eyes from view from the nose up. In one hand he held a sprig of wildflowers, and it was this he held out to me. “I thought you could tie these to the staff. Many of the shepherds do so, to distinguish one from another. A personal touch.”
Never mind that the costume had been commissioned specifically for me and was in and of itself a personal touch—the gesture touched me. I took the flowers from him, binding them to the top of the staff with a bit of twine. “They’re beautiful, my lord. Thank you.”
Delaunay smiled, a real smile, his eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly at the corners as he reached out, touching a stray lock of hair out of my eyes, plucking another flower from a vase on my dressing-table and slipping it behind my ear. “Perfect,” he murmured, our eyes meeting through our masks. “‘A lovely farm-boy, with an angel’s face and love in his eyes’.”
He quoted the poem that told Antinous’ story, and I knew it, but nonetheless I smiled, inclining my head to him; he lifted my chin with his hand. For a moment I thought he would kiss me and I nearly leaned forward, but he drew back, adjusting his helmet with a steady hand. “Come,” he said, extending his hand for mine. “You know how Cecilie hates to be kept waiting.”
I slipped my hand into his, feeling the warmth as his fingers curled around mine.
He led me outside to the waiting coach, and did not let go of my hand.
*
In addition to being one of the City’s most successful courtesans and highest fashionistas, Cecilie Laveau-Perrin knew very, very well how to entertain. Her house already bustled when we arrived, filled near to bursting with D’Angeline noblefolk, costumed and masked with all the lavish stylishness that the City of Elua is so known for.
“Anafiel!” Cecilie greeted Delaunay with a kiss, laughter shining in her blue eyes. She was dressed as Gavrielle nó Cereus, the Night Court adept who made her marque and rose to become, through marriage, Consort to the King of Terre d’Ange. “You look the perfect conqueror, you beautiful boy. And Alcuin!” She took my hands in both of hers, and I leaned down to kiss her. “And who are you tonight, my dear?”
“Antinous da Tiberium, my lady,” I said, squeezing her hands and smiling.
She looked surprised. “Indeed?” Her eyes flickered to Delaunay, who inclined his masked head very slightly. Cecilie laughed, drawing me down to kiss me once more, curling her hand over my cheeks. “Ah, Anafiel,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “I am happy for you.”
Confused, I started to ask what she meant, but another guest arrived and she took her leave of us. I remained, staring at Delaunay, who stood smiling his damnably amused smile. “My lord,” I began, but he cut me off, stopping a passing adept and lifting two glasses of cordial from his tray.
The boy ducked his head in a bow, golden hair spilling from beneath his mask. “Joie,” he murmured, not meeting our eyes. I guessed him to be from Cereus House—they are trained, there, to serve with grace and subservience, every carefully-set angel of their bodies taught from childhood so as best to please. Phèdre had the same careful grace.
Delaunay nodded at him, but his eyes were fixed on me. “Joie,” he said to the boy, and handed me a glass. “And joy to you.”
He clinked his glass against mine and we drank; I felt the sweet burn of the cordial down my throat, warming me from the inside out. “Joy,” I whispered, holding Delaunay’s gaze. “Joy to you on the Longest Night.”
What might have happened in that moment, had Gaspar Trevalion not come between us, I will never know. But he was there nonetheless, his eyes glinting behind his mask. “Anafiel!” He embraced Delaunay, grinning. “Imperator Hadrian, is it?” He clapped Delaunay’s shoulder. “Good choice, man, though you’re a bit slim for it.” He turned to me. “And here is your Antinous, no doubt?” I smiled at him and he chuckled, leaning down to kiss me in greeting. “Very nice,” he said when we parted, winking at me. “Tell me, boy, now that your marque is made, will you withdraw from Naamah’s service?”
“Most likely, my lord.” I tilted my head toward him, allowing my hair to fall over my shoulder, trying to channel some of Phèdre’s mischievousness. “Unless I receive an offer I can’t refuse.”
Gaspar laughed aloud. “Is that so? Anafiel, you’ve trained him too well, look at the spark in his eyes!” He clasped my hand. “How’s this for an offer, boy? I’ll treat you to a dance, in exchange for a kiss.”
I laughed, how could I not? He was drunk, and happy with it, the flush of wine pinking his cheeks. “I accept, my lord Trevalion, and will gladly keep my end of the contract.”
Out of the corner of my eye, as Gaspar led me out to the floor, I saw Delaunay watching us. I smiled, and let Gaspar spin me into the dance.
How many people I danced with that night, I could not say. I lost sight of Delaunay between the second waltz and the first gavotte, spinning out of a woman’s arms and into a man’s and back again, the faces blurring into a swirling collage of laughter and joie.
It is the last dance that I remember, and that dance alone, for I found myself in Delaunay’s arms.
The music had not yet started; the last chord of the previous dance still lingering in the air. I turned too quickly, still applauding the musicians, and felt a hand on my hip, catching me as I spun and nearly lost my balance. Hands circled in my waist, steadying me, and I looked up to meet Delaunay’s eyes.
His voice, when he spoke, was softly tinted with amusement, his eyes sparkling behind his helmet-mask. “Alcuin.” My name had always sounded more beautiful in his voice. “Have you been drinking?”
“A glass of cordial, my lord.” He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe two,” I amended, and he chuckled, moving to release me.
A chord sounded in the quiet, a lingering harp-string, and I caught his hand. “A dance, my lord,” I said, holding him. “Just one?”
His expression shifted, a nigh-imperceptible change over his features. Someone who did not know him well would not have seen it. I, who had watched him for years, recognized the spark in his eyes for what it was.
Desire.
And it was gone a moment later, replaced by his usual control. “One dance,” he said, acquiescing, his fingers closing on mine. “For you.”
We moved onto the floor as the music began in earnest. It was a Serenissiman dance, the taengo; a dance of sensuality, of touch, of desire veiled in calculated steps and snapping spins. “Did you know,” he murmured, slipping one arm around my waist and drawing me close, “that this dance was once banned from La Serenissima?”
I wrapped one arm around his neck, took his other hand in mine. “No, my lord. I didn’t know.”
“They considered it—“ the music moved into a sharp crescendo, and I moved against him, our bodies pressing close, “—too sensual.”
“It is a sensual dance, my lord,” I murmured, trailing the fingers of one hand over his cheek as the music began to swell once more. His breath hitched; I felt the jump of his pulse beneath my fingertips. “But beautiful in its sensuality.”
He spun me away from him, surprising me with the quickness of the motion, and then drew me back into his arms once more. “Yes,” he said softly, his eyes intense as they bored into mine. “Beautiful.”
The music faded, leaving us pressed together. There was applause around us, voices chattering, the strains of the next dance already beginning to fill the air. It may as well have been silent, for all the care we took in our surroundings. Delaunay held my gaze with heat burning in his eyes; heat, yes, and somewhat else. For a long time he did not speak, and I could only helplessly up at him, clasped in his arms.
And when he spoke it was soft, his voice utterly gentle, his fingers lifting my chin. “Alcuin,” he murmured; I trembled under his touch like a leaf in the autumn wind. “My Antinous.”
I kissed him then, shamelessly in front of everyone at Cecilie’s masque, standing on tiptoe to reach his lips.
And this time, he did not try to push me away.
*
Had it not been for the presence of a good many peers of the realm, I daresay he would have taken me there on the dance floor. Of a surety, the desire was there; I could feel it in his gaze in the heat of his blood beneath his skin, more than a decade’s worth of long-pent longing, disguised as fatherly affection.
He drew me away, outside, back into the coach, instructing the driver to bring us home. And then he pulled me into his arms.
Of that kiss, I can barely speak. There was little of Naamah’s art in the joining of our lips, the meshing of our teeth and tongues, but what it lacked in niceties it made up for in passion. His tongue slipped into my mouth, probing, gentle yet determined, his fingers twining into my hair and pulling my mask aside. I wrapped my arms around his neck, drawing him closer, deeper, closing my eyes against the intensity of the desire that flooded my veins.
Where one kiss ended, another began, until they ran together continuously. It seemed to last forever and not long enough; I felt hot and cold, too much emotion, too much feeling at once. I clung to him, reeling, falling upward into his mouth, into his hands, dying a thousand deaths with every touch of his fingers, his tongue. I was reduced to trembling, letting him hold me, feeling the sinewy strength of his hands, the firm muscles in his arms.
He released me when the coach stopped, drawing away and running his hands through my hair, cupping my cheeks in his hands and pressing a feather-light kiss to my lips. I felt his breath whisper over my skin as he exhaled a sigh and felt that more keenly than the passion-filled gasping of the moment before.
I’ll never know how we made it inside, joined as we were, our arms and legs intertwined, lips half-meshed. But somehow we managed, and it was almost graceful in the stumbling, tender in the frenzied passion.
We were halfway out of the parlor when he stopped me, pushing me back against the wall, his lips tangling with mine once more. In all my years with him I had never known him to do anything less than perfectly; he fumbled that night, kissing me, all of his cultured finesse gone in the fire of desire, the heat of arousal. Breaking the kiss, I saw pure longing burning in his eyes, hot and untamed, and I drew away, reaching up to cup his face in my hands.
“It’s the Longest Night, my lord,” I whispered. “We have time to be slow.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes, desire giving way to something else, something I couldn’t quite place. His lips parted, very slightly, and I stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
If I say that that kiss was only slow, it would be like saying Ysandre de la Courcel was only blonde. It was more than that, Elua, so much more; slow, yes, but also gentle, tender, easy and yet no less arousing for it. His tongue slipped past my parted lips, seeking, and I let him, but I held him back when he tried to pull me closer, keeping our bodies apart.
I’d used none of Naamah’s art, that night I revealed my marque. That night had nothing but desire, I seeking, he providing. We are D’Angeline; it was enough. But what arts I had withheld then, I used now, drawing him closer even as I held him at arm’s length, making him want more, more of my touch, more of me. Reluctant or no, I had been Naamah’s Servant; I proved it that night. I unfastened his toga with deft fingers, unwrapping the long length of fabric, letting it slide through my grip to pool at his feet. He stood all but naked before me, his phallus straining against his linen undergarments, and this time I let him pull me in to kiss me, feeling his hardness against my own.
He groaned aloud when I knelt for the languisement, freeing his phallus and taking it into my mouth. I worked him with lips and teeth and tongue, relishing every gasp, every shudder, every murmured word of passion or encouragement. His hands threaded into my hair, holding my head firmly in place, and I smiled around his shaft, scraping lightly with my teeth to be rewarded when his gingers tightened in my hair. I moved one hand up, pressing against the skin on the back of his testes, and he spent himself with a groan, hips thrusting as I swallowed reflexively, letting his phallus slip from my lips.
Delaunay was still and silent a long time, his breathing the only sound. He loosened his grip on my hair but kept his hands there, stroking gently, tender in the wake of climax. I leaned my head forward to rest against his thigh, pressing a light kiss against his flushed skin. “My lord,” I said softly, “what are you thinking?”
He cupped my chin in one hand, tilting my face up. I met his eyes, still passion-dark, and let him take my hands and draw me up. “That I never intended this,” he said, pressing my knuckles to his lips. I shivered under the touch of his breath over my skin. “After Rolande, I told myself I could take lovers...but never another like him.”
There was pain in his voice; I, trained to listen, heard it plainly. I lowered my head, my vision obscured by my hair. Tears stung at my eyes, and I wondered why—my pain, or Delaunay’s? “My lord,” I whispered, “I didn’t mean—“
His fingers tightened around mine, and I fell silent, looking up once more. He released one of my hands to brush his thumb over my eyelids, forcing the tears to fall. “I never intended it, but it happened nonetheless. You were to be my pupil only, my eyes and ears...I never expected this.” He gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “All of my cunning, and I never saw it.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing my cheek, kissing away the tears; I felt his breath whisper against my skin. “Alcuin...”
My name, only, and yet it fell from his lips like a blessing, a prayer. I felt a rush of emotions, the strongest among them love, Blessed Elua, love at its pure finest. I saw it reflected in his eyes as he looked down at me, a love far deeper than that of a mentor for his bond-servant, the love I’d been praying for for years in the beds of others. I felt a fresh stream of tears spill down my cheeks and over his fingers. “I love you,” I whispered, and heard my voice shaking. “By Blessed Elua and his holy precept, I love you.”
Delaunay said nothing, only leaned down and kissed me.
It was sweet, ah, Elua, sweeter than any I’d given or received in Naamah’s service. His lips moved over mine with a lover’s tenderness and a beloved’s care, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, drawing him closer, falling into him, knowing he’d catch me. His arms found my hips and moved lower, cupping under my buttocks. He lifted me effortlessly and I twined my legs around his a child in his hands. It was strange, being above him, yet he tilted his head back, keeping our lips together and holding the kiss as he carried me to his chamber. He laid me on the bed with excruciating tenderness, leaning over to kiss my jaw, and I slipped my fingers through his half-tangled braid, pulling him down against me.
One always maintains a certain amount of control as a Servant of Naamah. Even Phèdre, as yielding as they come, knows she has some authority in her assignations, with the finality of her signale.
I gave up any semblance of control that night; so, I think, did Delaunay. I employed all of Naamah’s arts with no thought of reciprocation or reward, kissing my way up and down his body, feeling the heat of desire flush his skin once more. And he showed me that desire, shamelessly, running his fingers over every contour of my body, kissing my masque from finial to base, turning me gently and bending to perform the languisement until I cried out and clung to him, begging.
I wept at our joining, the gentle, loving tenderness of it, arching against him with tears in my eyes. He leaned down, kissing me in time with his thrusts, whispering meaningless nothings into my ear, against my lips. He moved inside me with practiced ease, his face a mask of pleasure, yet his eyes were clear, somber in their softness, but there was light there as well, a spark I had only seen when he spoke of Rolande. I wondered, with a pang, who it was he was making love to, me or Rolande’s memory?
As if reading my thoughts, Delaunay’s body stilled above mine, and he lifted his head, meeting my eyes. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me—a longtime pupil, a Servant of Naamah, or somewhat more, a lover, a friend, a consort. He lifted a hand to cup my cheek, I felt his fingers trembling. “Would you have me say it?” he asked, stroking my damp hair from my skin.
His thumb met wetness; I was still crying. “I told you, my lord,” I whispered, “everything I have done has been for you. If this is all you need, so be it.” I reached up to him, my fingers brushing his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked you for much, my lord, but I’ll ask this—don’t say it, if it isn’t true.”
Delaunay laughed, a true laugh, leaning down to kiss me. “Ah, love,” he said against my lips, “how did someone so conniving as me raise someone so beautiful?” I opened my mouth, uncertain whether or not he wanted a reply, and he kissed me again, harder this time. “I do love you,” he said when we parted, I breathless, he smiling. “Likely more than I have any right to, considering what I’ve put you through over the years, but nonetheless...” He shook his head, dropping his forehead down to rest against mine. “And if it weren’t for Phèdre, that damnable fool of an anguissette, I’d never have realized it.”
I laughed through my tears, the truth of his words sinking in. “If you only knew what it cost her to say it, my lord.” I couldn’t help feeling curious, squinting up at him through my hair. “What exactly did she say?”
“Ever curious.” He toyed with a lock of my hair, curling it idly around one finger. “Only that you’d be ill-suited for the Casseline Brotherhood, what with your love for me.” He smiled, laughter glinting in his eyes. “Although it would be a beautiful thing to behold, you wielding Casseline daggers.”
I smiled up at him, eyeing him through my lashes. “I’m trained to handle daggers of a different sort, my lord.” I squeezed him within me and a flash of uninhibited pleasure flitted across his face. I chuckled in spite of myself. “You raised a Servant of Naamah, my lord. Are you surprised—ah!” He moved inside of me, deeper, sending a shock of pleasure up my spine. “Oh, there,” I gasped, and he leaned down, rocking against me, silencing me with a kiss.
I cried out, before the end, breaking the kiss and burying my face in his shoulder as he thrust into me, his breathing ragged. It was more than pleasure, more than love; it was some combination of the two, heightening my senses, my emotions, my desires. I felt his thrusts quicken, losing their rhythm but none of their accuracy. I arched against him, gasping, Naamah’s serene face dancing before my closed eyelids, beyond her, Elua, smiling.
In my ear, voice breathless, Delaunay whispered that he loved me, his fingers clenching on my hips, rigid within me. I spent myself with a wordless cry, pressing my lips against his neck, and I felt his release an instant later, spilling hot and fast inside me as he groaned, his lips seeking mine.
Afterward, he held me, raining soft kisses over my skin. I caught his hand in mine, lacing our fingers together, marveling at the simple contrasts in our skin. Delaunay was by no means dark, but against my pale skin, he seemed so. His breathing was soft, easy; I made myself speak. “My lord?”
He murmured a reply against my hair.
“In the morning,” I chose my words carefully, “what am I to you?”
For a long time he was silent, and I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But then he spoke, his fingers tightening on mine. “I don’t know.” It was strange to hear those words from his lips, from someone who had always seemed so knowing, so sure. “If you’re asking whether or not I’ll declare you my consort, the answer is no.” He sighed, I felt his eyes close, his lashes brushing my skin. “But what you are, Alcuin, is my second chance at happiness. And mayhap, someday, more.” He pressed his lips to the back of my neck, at the very finial of my marque. “Is it enough?”
I thought of Rolande de la Courcel, Delaunay’s first love, long-buried and never forgotten. I thought of his daughter Ysandre, an innocent girl surrounded by smiling traitors. I thought of Phèdre, struggling with her destructive love for her patrons, past and present.
I thought of the utter simplicity that was the love I bore for him, the clear, unworried understanding that I’d always had, even before I knew what it meant. I thought about how, as much as his touch set me to trembling and his kiss set me aflame, I could be happy simply to see him smile. “Yes, my lord,” I murmured. “It’s enough.”
He sighed, then, shifting against me, his arms around my waist. “Good.”
Tomorrow morning, Phèdre would be the center of attention. She would come home with her scowling Casseline and her dreamy eyes, like as not brimming with dazzling accounts of her Longest Night with Melisande Shahrizai.
But tonight, there was peace, and quiet. Tonight I lay safe and sated in a lover’s arms.
Tonight, Anafiel Delaunay loved me.
Smiling, warm, and happier than I’d been in a long time, I slept.