Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [103]
I made a show of mounting, giving her time to wipe away the tears I'd pretended not to see. The Bastard obliged by turning in an abrupt circle, forcing me to hop on one foot until I gained enough leverage to swing myself astride. By the time I did, Alais was smiling. Across the field, I could see a few people laughing, too, but it was worth it.
"Do you know, I had a dream, once, that we were brother and sister," Alais said. "Really and truly, I mean. When I woke up, I wished it were so." She paused. "I do love you, Imri."
I grinned at her. "Me too, villain."
Her brows drew into a scowl. "Stop calling me that! It's silly."
"All right, villain."
* * *
Chapter Twenty-One
For the first time, I attended the Midwinter Masque.
I told myself it was for Eamonn's sake, though it wasn't entirely true. I wanted to go. I'd heard too many stories of the splendor and gaiety of the Longest Night. And this would be my only chance to attend it with a friend, one true friend, in tow.
If Joscelin was hurt, he didn't show it; I daresay he understood. He would keep Elua's vigil as always, while Ti-Philippe stood in as Phèdre's escort. For her part, Phèdre was pleased. Once the matter was determined, nothing would do but that we all accompany her to the salon of her couturiere, Favrielle nó Eglantine, to be fitted for costumes.
It was customary for the members of a household to be costumed around a single theme. Favrielle took one look at the four of us—Phèdre, Ti-Philippe, Eamonn, and I—and put her hands on her hips.
"What do you expect me to do with this, Comtesse?" she asked in an acerbic tone.
"I thought you might have some ideas," Phèdre said mildly.
Favrielle shook her head and muttered, pacing around the comfortable antechamber of her salon and studying us. She was a pretty woman, with disheveled curls of coppery gold and a delicate face poorly suited to its customary expression of ill-temper; but then, I suppose irascible genius doesn't choose its vessel.
"Stand up," she said abruptly to Eamonn. He did, towering over her. "Name of Elua! How am I supposed to handle a giant in your midst?"
Phèdre shrugged. "Are there no popular themes this year that would suit us?"
"Popular?" Favrielle shot her a scathing look. "I set trends, Comtesse. I do not follow them."
"Of course." Phèdre inclined her head, hiding a smile. "Forgive me, Favrielle."
Ignoring her, the couturiere walked around Eamonn, studying him as though he were prize livestock. He stood, patient and bewildered. The rest of us sat waiting while Favrielle nó Eglantine's sharp gaze flickered from him to us and back again. Finally she dismissed Eamonn with a wave of her hand, then resumed pacing, biting her thumbnail, deep in thought.
"I have an idea," she announced at length. There was a rare note of uncertainty in her voice. "You may not like it." She rang a bell, and an apprentice appeared. "Bring me Dorian's folio."
In short order, the apprentice returned with a handsome leather-bound folio. Favrielle handed it to Phèdre, who paged through it, gazing at the woodblock prints. Her hands went still, and she looked up at Favrielle. "These are Skaldic myths," she said.
Favrielle nodded. "I told you you might not like it." Stooping beside Phèdre, she pointed at a print of a handsome, hulking deity, a mighty hammer in one hand. "Donar, the thunder-god. That's who I thought of for the Dalriadan prince."
Eamonn peered over her shoulder. "I like the look of him!"
"Your country wasn't invaded by the Skaldi," Ti-Philippe muttered.
"It wasn't their gods who ordered it." Phèdre rose and walked a little distance away. "Believe me, I know." She looked at Favrielle. "What else?"
"Loki." The couturiere pointed at Ti-Philippe, then me. "And Baldur the Beautiful. For you, Comtesse, the goddess Freyya." She took a deep breath, expelling it through pursed lips. "Color. Everyone will be doing strong color, bright color this year. I'd keep you all