Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [63]
You will find it and lose it, again and again.
With a heart full of youthful rue, I watched it go.
We finished the summer at Montrève. After a month's indulgence with the Shahrizai, I flung myself into labor. I helped Charles with chores around the estate, and if our camaraderie was less than it had been, still, he was glad to have my aid. I sparred with Joscelin, who spoke well of my progress. And I resumed my studies with Phèdre.
There were no more tutors, and we did not practice the art of covertcy. Instead, sensing my need to lose myself undisturbed, she gave me a series of texts to read—histories and philosophies, for the most part. I liked reading the arguments of old Hellene philosophers.
After her anger, I was careful with Phèdre. It was not that she held a grudge, not by any means. There was no one in the world quicker to forgive. But it was because she understood human failing all too well; and in the bright mirror of her regard, I was reluctant to gaze upon my own shortcomings.
I spoke to Joscelin about it one day after we had sparred.
"Well," he said judiciously, "You did act the fool."
"Yes, I know." I flushed. "It's just—"
"I know." Joscelin's gaze softened. "Your mother." He sighed and ran a hand through his wheat-blond hair, darkened with streaks of sweat. It was hot and we had fought hard. "Imriel, I don't relish the knowledge any more than you do."
I traced a pattern on the slate with the toe of one boot. "How do you bear it?"
"I tried doing without Phèdre once." His voice was light and wry, but I lifted my head to meet his gaze, and his expression was not. "I discovered anything else was preferable."
"Even Daršanga?" I asked.
"Yes." Joscelin was quiet for a moment. "Even Daršanga," he said at length, and gave his half-smile, reaching out to tousle my hair. "Even her inexplicable affinity for your cursed mother. And if you ask me which of the two is worse, love, I would be hard put to answer. But we got you out of it, didn't we?"
It was one of those moments that made my heart soar. I grinned foolishly. "You reckon it was worthwhile?"
"Of course," Joscelin said simply. "Don't you?"
I thought a good deal about his words. It was not only that they warmed my heart, but they held a double meaning. Like Drustan mab Necthana, when he speaks, it is to good effect; like the Cruarch, Joscelin is more subtle than he appears. When all was said and done, I did reckon it worthwhile. They had found me, and redeemed me out of hell.
It was enough; it was more than enough.
Still, I did not know how to make my peace with Phèdre.
The strain persisted between us until the day she caught me browsing in her study. She has an extensive library, both at Montrève and in the City, but it was a common text that had caught my eye—an edition of the Trois Milles Joies, which is a famous D'Angeline compendium.
It was Enediel Vintesoir, the founder of the Night Court, who compiled it; or so legend claims. It contains every form of lovemaking in which men and women may partake, in every possible form and combination. All of them were illustrated by finely cut woodblock prints.
I scanned its pages in appalled fascination, dry-mouthed and taut with desire.
"Do you wish to borrow it?"
Phèdre's voice broke my reverie. I dropped the volume, wincing at the sound of parchment crackling, and stooped and caught it up quickly, holding it before me to hide the swelling in my breeches.
"No!" I said, quick and high-pitched. "I'm sorry. I was only looking."
"You may, you know." She turned away in a graceful gesture, scanning the shelves. "You probably should. Here." Phèdre handed me a leather-bound copy of The Journey of Naamah. "This one, too."
I felt the blood rise in my face, which was an improvement. "It's