Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [43]
Her lips quirked. “Considerable.”
I clambered out of bed and splashed water on my face, fumbling for clothing. “Best send him in, then.”
Benoit Vallon swept into our bedchamber with a satchel in one hand and a scowl on his face. He was a tall, lanky fellow who moved with loose-limbed grace, and every line of his long body expressed his considerable irritation.
“Well met, Messire—” I began.
His scowl deepened. “Yes, yes! It’s my fault for hiring my idiot nephew. He should never have turned you away.” He made an impatient gesture. “Come now, my lady! It’s less than a month’s time until the oath-taking ceremony, with the Longest Night hard on its heels. Strip!”
“Ah… is that customary, Moirin?” Bao inquired.
“It’s all right.” I began removing the sari I’d hastily pinned in place. “Messire Vallon needs to take measurements.” I glanced at the couturier. “You are here to accept a commission?”
Benoit Vallon favored me with a saturnine smile. “I’m not letting it fall to Eglantine House, that’s for certain. Atelier Favrielle has a reputation to maintain, and you’re surely one of the more interesting creatures I’ve dressed over the years.” He plucked up the sari I’d let fall, stretching out the unwieldy length of embroidered, sequined silk. “This is gorgeous fabric. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Bhodistani work so fine. Have you more?”
“Aye, but—”
“But what?” He shot me an impatient look. “It’s gorgeous, yes, but you cannot run around the City of Elua in midwinter looking like you’ve escaped from some pasha’s harem, Lady Moirin. So show me what you have, and let me find a way to incorporate it, hmm?”
I nodded reluctantly. “All right. But not all of it.”
“Fine.” Benoit began taking my measurements with a cloth tape, jotting down figures. When he was satisfied, he turned his attention to Bao. “So this is the infamous juggling physician-prince husband?”
“Tumbling,” Bao supplied.
“Tumbling.” The couturier repeated his impatient gesture. “Strip.”
Bao blinked. “Me?”
With a sigh, Benoit Vallon indicated Bao’s loose-fitting Bhodistani tunic and breeches. “Must I repeat myself, messire? All you need is a turban to play the part of the pasha from whose harem your wife escaped. Now strip, please.”
“We talked about this,” I reminded Bao, pinning my sari back in place and opening one of our trunks. Ironically, it contained the crimson turban Bao had worn at our wedding.
“You did not tell me it involved stripping for strangers,” he complained, but he obeyed, shucking his clothing.
“Hmm.” Benoit circled him, gazing intently. “Very nice. Lean, yet muscular. An excellent physique for well-tailored attire. No more baggy, ill-fitting atrocities for you, messire.” He took in the gold ear-hoops, the tattoos marking Bao’s forearms like streaks of jagged, black lightning. “Very… piratical.” He pointed at the latter. “Are those some sort of tribal markings?”
“No.” Bao didn’t elaborate.
“There’s a certain brooding darkness about you,” Benoit said shrewdly. “A roguish glamour, one might say… but it’s somewhat more, too.” He hoisted his measuring tape. “May I?”
I rummaged through our trunks, putting to one side those saris with which I did not want to part, like the crimson one I’d worn at our wedding and the mustard-yellow one that had been Amrita’s first gift to me, keeping half an eye on Bao as he suffered himself to be measured.
There was a faint aura of darkness that clung to him, and there had been ever since he had died and been restored to life. I could see it more clearly in the twilight, but I could see it in daylight, too.
I’d never known anyone else to remark on it.
Finished with his measurements, Benoit Vallon gestured for Bao to clothe himself once more. “Very good. Do you remember what I told you at our first consultation, my lady?”
I smiled. “I do, messire. You advised me that autumn hues would flatter me best, and that if I must wear color, to avoid bright hues in favor of deep jewel tones. Oh, and that I should never wear stark white, but ivory instead.”
“So I did. Well done, child.” He picked through