Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [130]
"Who?" someone asked.
"Focalor," Orien de Legasse announced. "Focalor, who wields power over wind and sea." He inclined his head toward Balric Maitland, his spectacles flashing. "Of course, we'd depend on you to forge a silver chain capable of binding him twice over."
"Of course," the silversmith agreed.
There was a good deal more: arcane arguments backed up by citations of arcane texts as to why this time it would succeed, this time they had found the means to circumvent any trickery. When it was finished, they all looked at me.
I stood. "I have listened. My answer is no."
"Moirin." Raphael rose, his hands gripping my upper arms. Where he touched me, irresistible warmth suffused my skin. His grey eyes pleaded with me. Memories surfaced behind mine. Cold, cold water dragging at his clothes. A white hand sinking below the waves. A pair of strong arms keeping him afloat. His father's ragged voice at his ear. Raphael's gaze was insistent. "Please?"
I closed my eyes and breathed. "No."
He was angry.
They were all angry.
Well and so, I was angry, too. Angry at them for using me, for blaming me when I refused to let myself be used. Angry at myself for agreeing to listen to them in the first place. I should have put my foot down earlier, but I'd been tired and vulnerable.
"I'll take my leave in the morning," I said to Raphael when we returned to the townhouse late that night. "I'll find lodgings elsewhere."
He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was low. "Let's not make any decisions tonight. We're both out of sorts. Sleep on it."
It was too late to argue. "We'll talk on the morrow."
Raphael nodded and turned away, then turned back. "I don't want you to go, Moirin."
"You never do. And yet…" I shrugged. "We'll talk."
"All right."
The morning brought two things. The first was a letter from Prince Thierry, filled with apologies and self-recrimination. The tone was genuine and heartfelt, unlike his usual cheerful correspondence. Even the very words etched on the page looked as though he'd labored over them. He reminded me that I'd promised to attend a ball that Jehanne was hosting in three days' time and begged me to send word that I'd keep my promise.
I mulled it over and decided to forgive Thierry. He hadn't meant to hurt me. He was young and had responded thoughtlessly to Balthasar Shahrizai's teasing; and I'd already seen how well that one prodded at sore spots. And I hadn't been entirely fair to Thierry myself. At the least, he deserved a second chance.
Besides, he'd promised to teach me to dance, which I very much wished to learn.
So I penned a swift letter accepting his apology and confirming my plans to attend the ball with him. I dispatched one of Raphael's manservants with it, feeling good about the decision.
Mayhap it was a good day for decisions, I thought.
And mayhap it would have been, were it not for the second thing. I'd risen early. Raphael had only just emerged for his morning cup of kavah when an acolyte from the Temple of Eisheth called on the townhouse.
"Tell her I'll see her in a little while," Raphael muttered. "After I've broken my fast."
The servant hesitated. "She's very distraught, my lord."
"How distraught?"
"Very."
"Elua's Balls." Raphael drained his kavah and rubbed his hands over his face. "Eisheth's servants aren't readily distressed," he said in reply to my inquiring glance. I was waiting patiently to talk with him. "Send her in."
The acolyte was very young, very pretty, and very distraught. She wore the sea-blue robes of Eisheth's Order and her pretty face was flushed and tear-stained. She flung herself on her knees before Raphael and babbled incoherently.
"Slow down!" he pleaded. "I can't make out a word."
"Breathe,"