Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [54]
"Do you?" he asked.
"Mavros." Roshana spoke his name like a command. He turned his head and stared at her. "Let him be."
"I'm only—"
She shook her head at him.
"Oh, all right." With a single motion, he unfolded himself from the floor and stood upright. "I'll take myself off to bed, then, since it seems I'm not fit for pleasant company this evening."
"You would be if you'd stop baiting me," I said.
"Don't be angry at me, cousin." Mavros gave me the disarming smile he used to charm kitchen-maids and stable-lads. "I'm only trying to help." When I made no reply, his smile faded, replaced by something deep and wondering. "What did they do to you in that place, Imriel?" he asked, genuinely curious. "What did they do to make you so afraid of what you are?"
I had never told him any of it; I have never told anyone all of it, except for Phèdre.
"You don't want to know," I said.
"I do, though." He touched my arm. "We understand these things."
Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.
"No," I said gently, no longer mad at him. "You think that you do, but believe me, Mavros, you don't. Not these."
After a moment, he nodded. "If you ever want to speak of it, I've a willing ear."
When he had gone, I sat down and watched Roshana's deft hands at work. There was something soothing in the rhythmic motion of it. Baptiste had fallen into a peaceful doze, his half-braided head drooping, lips parted. The sight made me smile.
"Patience, is it?" I asked Roshana.
"Well." She smiled back at me. "Patience, like love, takes many forms."
* * *
Chapter Twelve
Although I had made peace with Mavros, his words made me restless.
In truth, the Shahrizai themselves made me restless. To their credit, they had been perfectly well-behaved during their time at Montrève. What I had expected, I cannot say—perhaps, in the recesses of my mind, I half feared there would be some rampant manifestation of orgiastic behavior, or at the least, that I would find Mavros doing somewhat unspeakable to a chambermaid in a dark stairwell.
But no; although they flirted and charmed, they kept their behavior within the bounds of propriety. And yet it was there. It was present in the careless sensuality with which they interacted with one another, in the sense of desire simmering beneath the skin, predatory and… well, patient. Even in young Baptiste, it was there.
To gain a respite from it, I went to visit Phèdre in her study, where I found her reading through a pile of correspondence. A courier had come from the City, bearing a packet of missives which had arrived for her there. I stood in the open doorway, watching her read, her face alight with pleasure.
"Imri." She noticed me and beckoned. "Come in, love."
"I won't trouble you?" I asked. I had not seen her much; I had been busy with my cousins, and I thought she was merely being generous in giving me leave to spend time with them. After Mavros' words… I was not so certain.
Phèdre smiled. "Never. Where are our guests?"
"Ti-Philippe and Hugues are escorting them to the village. Roshana had a fancy to see it." Entering the study, I seated myself on the floor beside her chair. "Who's the letter from?"
"Nicola L'Envers," she said. "She's coming to the City to spend the winter at Court this year, with her younger son Raul."
I made a noncommittal sound. I knew the name well enough; she was a kinswoman of the Queen on her mother's side. She was wed to an Aragonian nobleman, and her influence there had been instrumental in aiding Phèdre and Joscelin in tracking down the Carthaginian slavers who had kidnapped me. I also knew she had been one of Phedre's favorite patrons.
"What is it?" Phèdre stroked my hair with cool fingers. "Trouble with the Shahrizai?"
"No." I leaned against her chair and closed my eyes. For a moment, I could pretend I was a child again. After Daršanga, I used to wish Phèdre was my mother, but I always knew it was impossible. She wasn't. She had saved my life, and I would lay my own down for hers in a heartbeat, but she was not my mother.
"What, then?"
Reluctantly, I raised my