Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [52]
"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 Phèdre 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 Phèdre.
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?" Phèdre 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.”
"Phèdre?" 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." Phèdre 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…" Phèdre smiled. "You're another matter.”
"I'm not impetuous!" I protested.
"Oh, no?" Phèdre 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, Phèdre 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, Phèdre 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