Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [16]
Well and so, that is my history with the Midwinter Masque. When Ysandre's invitation arrived, I took it for a sign— which is how I came to stand frowning at my wardrobe.
"I have nothing to wear." Irritated, I flung the doors of the wardrobe closed and sat with a flounce upon my bed. Gemma, the day-maid, set down her feather-duster and stretched her eyes at me; by her standards, I had gowns aplenty.
"My lady," she said timidly. "What of the grey velvet? It is passing lovely, and I... I have a brother who is apprenticed to a masquer, he could make somewhat to match; a diadem of stars, mayhap, or a mist-maiden ..."
"No." I dismissed her suggestion, but kindly. "Thank you, Gemma. If I were going anywhere but the Palace, it would do nicely, and you are good to offer. No, I need somewhat else. If I am to debut as a Servant of Naamah among my peers, it must be somewhat no one has ever seen." Chin in hands, I mused. "Cecilie is right. I need a seamstress." Gemma ran for paper—she had been quick to discern my ways—and I penned a swift note.
As a former adept of Cereus House and one of the great courtesans of her time, Cecilie Laveau-Perrin's status was undiminished within the Night Court for, within a day, I had an appointment to meet with Favrielle no Eglantine, and if I thought my own standing had aught to do with it, I was disabused of the notion within minutes of meeting my prospective seamstress.
All of the Thirteen Houses claim different strengths; as all of the Thirteen hold to different versions of Naamah.
Eglantine is the artists' House, and her adepts are skilled in a dozen disciplines: players, poets, artists, musicians, dancers and tumblers. And, it would appear, clothiers. Even so, all adepts must make their marques before dedicating themselves to their artistic pursuits, and I was puzzled as to how a young clothier had risen to renown while still under the aegis of her House.
I was not puzzled for long.
"Comtesse," Favrielle no Eglantine greeted me briefly, sizing me up in one wry glance. "You realize you've chosen the worst possible time to request my services? I have two dozen adepts clamoring for masque attire, and this is scant notice."
Taken aback, I blinked. She was no older than I; younger, perhaps, by a year or two. Wide grey eyes and a mop of red-gold curls, a charming sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose—there is a limit, within the canons, of the number allowable for beauty. Favrielle's met it. What did not was the scar that marred her upper lip, twisting it slightly.
She saw me take notice. "Shall we get it out of the way? I am flawed goods, Comtesse," she said in a voice laden with irony. "Unfit for patrons, with a marque to meet nonetheless. This compels me to take commissions, when my Dowayne allows it. And inconvenient as it is, I cannot bypass this opportunity. So shall we do business?"
"How did it happen?"
Favrielle sighed. "I slipped in the bath," she recited tonelessly, "and split my lip." Glancing at a note, she raised her eyebrows. "The Palace masque, yes? Is that what you want?"
"Favrielle." I touched her arm. "I understand, a little. I grew up in Cereus House, flawed, unfit to serve."
"And now you are Kushiel's chosen, the Comtesse de Montrève, bringer of the Alban army, heroine of the Battle of Troyes-le-Mont and the Queen's pet courtesan." Her scarred lip curled. "Yes, Phèdre no Delaunay, I know. And when you can transform me into the same, let me know. Until then, tell me what you want to wear."
Stung, I lifted my chin and made my reply coolly. "Something fitting for the first peer of the realm in a hundred years to debut as a Servant of Naamah at the Royal Masque."
"Fine." Favrielle crossed her arms. "Strip.”
It had been, I found, a surprisingly long time since I subjected myself to the critical gaze of a Night Court adept. I stood naked in the fitting-room of Eglantine House, surrounded by mirrors while Favrielle paced around me, grey