Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [139]
He shook his head, dispelling them.
"Come," he said. "Let's go home."
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Nine
On the morrow, I had to face Phèdre.
I put it off as long as I could. Joscelin and I had arrived in the small hours of the night, with most of the household sleeping, only a bleary-eyed Hugues to greet us. I took to my bed and slept, too; the sleep of the dead, or nearly so.
But eventually, I had to rise.
Hunger drove me from my chamber. My belly, purged of all it had contained for the past day, rumbled ominously. When I heard Eugenie ring the bell for luncheon, I stumbled downstairs on wobbly legs.
"Good day," I mumbled, taking my seat at the table. Phèdre stared at me in mild shock. The surge of remembered desire, the way her pulse had leapt beneath my thumb, struck me anew. My empty stomach roiled. "What?" I asked, defensive. "What is it?"
"Your hair," she said. "And your mouths Joscelin coughed.
I licked my split lips and winced. "I deserved it. And the hair…" I felt at the multitude of ragged, severed stumps of braids that dotted my scalp, half-unraveled. "I was angry," I said lamely.
"I know." Her voice softened. "Will you at least let me trim it?"
It would be a test of sorts. The thing lay between us, acknowledged but unspoken. I nodded and began to fill my plate.
Afterward, I bathed, soaking in a tub of heated water and fragrant oils. I felt better for it. And when I had done, Phèdre attended to my hair.
I sat on a footstool, wrapped in a dressing gown, hunkering low.
Every muscle in my body was strung taut. Phèdre undid the tangled remnants of my Shahrizai braids, teasing them out with an ivory comb. She had a deft touch. How not? She had been trained as an adept of the Night Court. And yet this time there was somewhat impersonal in it, somewhat that quelled desire. I had heard rumors that adepts of all the Thirteen Houses were so trained. It was one of the Night Court's untold secrets. Mayhap it was true. I only know I was grateful for it. "Hold still, love," Phèdre murmured.
I felt the cold kiss of steel shears against my cheek. "I trust you," I said, closing my eyes. "I always will. Always."
The shears moved in a steady flurry, snipping and slicing. I hugged myself and sat unmoving, bits of hair flying. It took a while. When the flurry had ended, Phèdre laughed, soft and low, a sound filled with quiet regret.
"Look," she said, directing me to the mirror. "A proper Tiberian gentleman."
I looked. My hair lay in a loose, shining cap, cut high enough to bare my ears, breaking over my brow in waves. I met her eyes in the mirror. It was easier that way.
"I'm sorry!" I said. "Ah, Elua! I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." Phèdre's hands rested on my shoulders, her touch cool and light. Looking into the mirror, she matched my gaze. "We are what we are, Imriel. Blessed Elua has his reasons." "I pray he does," I whispered.
"He does." She turned me loose. "Go and make your plans." I met with her factor first; my factor, now. As I had reached the age of majority, I had the right to draw upon the proceeds of my estates. Jacques Brenin arranged for a transfer of funds, giving me a note that would allow me to make a claim on one of Tiberium's foremost banks. And then I faced the Queen and gave her my decision. It was the first time I had met with her alone, with only the two of us present. Ysandre was wroth.
I watched her pace the length of her private receiving-chamber, a scarlet flush on the lines of her cheekbones. Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange, did not like being thwarted in her plans.
She fetched up before me. "Why, Imriel?" she asked, frustrated.
"Why?"
"Because," I said softly. "Dorelei mab Breidaia seems like a nice girl, your majesty; sweet and kind. And I'm not nice." I shook my head, weightless and shorn. "I'm not nice at all. She deserves better."
"Imriel." The Queen drew herself up. "A kingdom rides on this."
"What is a kingdom?" I asked philosophically. "Blessed Elua himself cared naught for thrones or the concerns of mortal politics."