Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [23]
For two days, I mooned around the townhouse, fretting and neglecting my studies, until I came to a decision. When I did, I went to find Phèdre.
She was in her bathing-room, which was the one altar to sheer luxury that she maintains in her household. I paused and would have gone away without knocking, but Eugenie's niece Clory opened the door, her hands glistening with oil.
"Imri." Phèdre's voice, coming from beyond the door, was mild. "Will you out with it now, or later? 'Tis yours to choose, love."
The mingled scent of lavender and mint made me wrinkle my nose. "Now?"
"Come in, then."
I entered and took a seat on the low stool there, hooking my heels over the last rung and propping my chin on my fists. The bathing-room was warm and humid. Candles flickered, burning low in waxen pools. Phèdre lay on the cushioned massage-table, draped only in a short length of finespun linen. Her head was pillowed on her arms. She looked heavy-lidded, languid and indolent, which would have deceived anyone who did not know her.
"Is it Maslin?" she asked.
I nodded. "Do you promise you won't laugh at me?"
"Yes," Phèdre said. "Do you want Clory to leave?"
"No, that's all right." I shook my head. Among those who served in Phèdre's household, discretion was paramount. Women know how to keep secrets. I learned that in the zenana. "I don't mind."
Clory, resuming her duties as masseuse, clicked her tongue against her teeth; doubtless responding to some slight tension in Phèdre's body. She had trained at Balm House, and she took a great deal of pride in her skills. It was soothing to watch. In the warm candlelight, Phèdre's skin glowed like new cream, the black lines and crimson accents of her marque in stark contrast. I perched on my stool in silence, watching Clory's strong, clever hands at work, while Phèdre watched me, patient and waiting.
At last I met her eyes. "I want to give him Lombelon."
Phèdre folded her hands beneath her chin. She didn't look surprised. "You know his claim will have to be substantiated."
"Yes." I took a deep breath. "I know. Do you doubt it?"
"No." She smiled wryly. "Not really. He looks like d'Aiglemort."
I watched a candle gutter and die. "Could you see to it, then? That part?"
"Yes." She shifted one shoulder. Clory halted and, without a word, went to wash her hands in the basin. Wiping them dry, she picked up Phèdre's silk robe, spreading it open and obscuring my view. With the ease of long practice, Phèdre stood and slid into it, knotting the sash. "Thank you, Clory."
"Always, my lady." Clory's smile was warm. As she left, she touched my shoulder lightly with one fragrant, oil-scented hand. "Young highness."
When she had gone, Phèdre sat cross-legged on the thick cushions of the table. She arranged the graceful folds of her robe, studying me. "Why, love?"
"Because I don't need it." I picked at some pooled wax with my thumbnail. "I don't even want it. And if it was meant to be his—it's not fair, that's all." I lifted my chin. "That's a good thing, isn't it? To set right something that's wrong?"
"In theory, yes," she said. "It doesn't always work as simply as it ought. For one thing, the Queen may not approve."
I frowned. "But it's my decision, isn't it?"
"Yes." Phèdre twisted her damp hair into a coil, smiling with a trace of rue. "And mine, since you've not reached your majority."
"She'll be angry ax you." I hadn't thought of that.
"No more than usual." A flicker of genuine amusement crossed her features. "I was thinking of you, love. Ysandre does not like to have her generosity rebuked. And then there is Maslin."
I found her jeweled hairpins and handed them to her. "What of him?"
"He may not be grateful," she said. "He may even be angry."
It made no sense, and I felt my frown deepen. "Why would he? He loves Lombelon, I could see it. And it's nothing to me."
"You answer your own question," Phèdre said softly, affixing her hairpins.
I sat and thought about it until I came to understand how Maslin of Lombelon might hate me for giving him his heart's