Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [333]
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips in response. "Thank you."
Claudia inclined her head. "You're welcome." She paused. "Why are you so angry?" she asked curiously. "Your mother did no harm. She sought only to protect you."
I opened my mouth and found I had no answer; or at least none that wouldn't sound childish. My mother was a villainous traitor. She had borne me out of sheer ambition and bequeathed me a heritage of treason and mistrust. And when I had gone missing, she had swallowed her pride and sent the one person in the world capable of finding me to do so.
I would be dead if she hadn't.
And I would be dead, spitted through by Domenico Martelli's first javelin, if she hadn't sent Canis to protect me. For once, she'd given me no cause to hate her.
"I don't know," I said honestly.
* * *
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Since there was nothing left to say, Claudia Fulvia and I said our farewells in Erytheia's atelier. It was fitting. I'd bid her good-bye once before in this place.
There were no recriminations this time, no cruel words. When all was said and done, we had been through too much together. I had seen much to admire in her and much to despise. A great deal to desire. I had learned from her, as surely as I'd learned from Master Piero.
The bright mirror and the dark.
I bowed over her hand and kissed it, remembering our first meeting. Her hand, bold and sure, reaching for me beneath the blanket. Her husband's salon in the darkness, her mouth on mine and her urgent, probing tongue.
"Good-bye, my lady," I said. "Elua's blessing on you."
Her mouth, smiling. "So it has been."
And so I left her to carry out my last errand, carrying a painting wrapped in burlap. I navigated the narrow streets of the students' quarter. The sun was sinking beneath the hills of Tiberium, filling the streets with blue shadows. It was growing cold, cold enough to turn my breath to frost.
I went to the insula.
A fit of cowardice overcame me and I nearly turned back. It would have been easy to have the painting and the cruel news delivered. I'd already spoken to Lady Denise about my intentions, and she had agreed freely to lend her aid. No doubt she would see it done with every courtesy and kindness.
But she hadn't known Gilot.
The courtyard was empty. No one was drawing water from the well, emptying chamberpots into the sluice. Drawing a deep breath, I tucked the painting beneath my arm, mounted the rickety stairs, and knocked on the door of the widow Anna's apartment.
"Yes?" It opened a wary crack. "Your highness! Forgive me."
She opened the door.
"Anna…" I said raggedly.
She knew. I saw the knowledge break over her like a wave, and she turned her face away. A pleasant face, ordinary and pretty. She closed her eyes as she turned, not quickly enough to hide the tears. Her shoulders shook.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so sorry."
"Mama?" Her daughter's voice, high and frightened. "Mama?"
Anna Marzoni dashed away her tears and faced me. "Come in. Please."
I entered quietly. It was a quiet place, neat and tidy. A table, two chairs. A single oil lamp, an unlit brazier. A dish of olives. A pallet with clean linens, the child Belinda huddled in it, her eyes wide and scared. She had known me, once. All that mattered now was that I had made her mother weep. I set down the painting, leaning it against the wall.
"What is this?" Anna asked me. A quiet voice.
I swallowed. "For remembrance."
She unwrapped it with steady hands, then knelt before it, her palms resting on her knees.
"Gilot!" Belinda crowed.
Gilot as Endymion, sleeping. His face half-averted, lashes curling on his cheek. Brown hair curling over his brow. One arm outflung, moonlight silvering his flesh like a lover's caress. The other hand, the splinted hand, hidden from view.
He's so