Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [236]
Still, it made me smile to see them gape at the way he framed ideas, asking pointed questions to make them think. They spoke with the same heady excitement that Eamonn had when I first arrived; the same I'd felt after Master Piero had first inspired me.
I felt older, now.
To be sure, I had reason, but I think we all felt it, even Brigitta. She had grown easier in Eamonn's company, and no longer carried her wax tablet, scowling and writing furious notes. And too, the riot and its aftermath had changed things. We had seen our fellow students at their worst, and strived to be better. We were the ones who had stayed with Master Piero when he challenged our assumptions. We had survived the attrition.
We were older.
During the afternoons, I spent time with Gilot. He was improving. His bruises had faded and he could walk easily, so long as he did not walk too far or fast. Then, his breathing grew labored and he clutched at his chest where a sharp stitch of pain caught him. His hand was still bound in a cumbersome splint. Asclepius' priest had said it could be removed before we departed for Lucca. What we would find, he could not promise.
Gilot tried hard not to be bitter, although he was. He felt useless. We had a fight when he refused to accept his monthly stipend, claiming he had not earned it. So I gave the money in secret to Anna and found him work instead, sitting for Erytheia of Thrasos. She took one look at him and smiled.
"Endymion," she said.
"An easy pose," I cautioned her. "Nothing taxing."
"The easiest," she agreed.
So Gilot posed for her as Endymion, whom a goddess had loved, lying supine on a pallet, one arm outstretched and the other, with its splinted hand, hidden. It kept him quiescent and it restored a small measure of his pride. I visited the atelier from time to time and watched the painting take shape on Erytheia's panel. Sleeping Endymion, caressed by moonlight. I looked at Gilot's averted profile, the brown curls on his brow, the vulnerable curve of his torso, hearing Anna's broken whisper.
He's so beautiful.
I kept my promise to Denise Fleurais and paid a visit to her couturier. He was D'Angeline and far more pleasant than Favrielle nó Eglantine, of whom he spoke in terms of hushed awe. He took my measurements and began to work on a suitable wardrobe for Lucius' wedding.
It all went quickly, so quickly.
My favorite parts were the evenings. We gathered in the wineshop—our wineshop, with the faded sign of Bacchus above the door—and spun out the night in drink and conversation. Betimes the new students would join us, but often it was only the four of us, Master Piero's true acolytes. We had all grown easy with one another. Brigitta had abandoned her bristling defenses, and Lucius his careless posturing. I no longer hid from my identity with them. And Eamonn… well, Eamonn was Eamonn. He had never pretended to be aught else. But the difference was, the others saw his merit.
It was a good time.
Too often, such times pass unnoticed, unmarked; treasured only in hindsight. Knowing was a gift. I wish I had known, in Kaneka's village of Debeho, how happy I was. In Tiberium, I knew. And I treasured each moment, saying to myself, "Here, I have friends. Here, I am happy. Remember this."
Soon, too soon, everything would change.
I had a hard decision to make in Terre d'Ange. Was it better to blackmail Bernadette de Trevalion or expose the truth? Once, I would have thought the choice easy. She'd tried to have me killed; she deserved no less. I'd wanted L'Envers to admit his guilt publicly and this was worse, far worse. And yet her punishment would be worse, too. Gaol or exile; mayhap even