Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [85]
That seemed a long, long time ago.
I hauled the satchel onto the bed and went through its contents. Lodgings, letters of introduction, letters of authentication. From the moment I'd opened my eyes on that street to see Raphael de Mereliot gazing down at me, I'd let all of this fall by the wayside.
"That," I said aloud, "has to change."
"My lady?" A different maid poked her head in the door; Daphne— the shy one who I quite liked.
"Nothing." I smiled at her. "I was talking to myself. Since my lord de Mereliot is occupied elsewhere today, I think I may venture out on my own."
"As you wish." Daphne returned my smile shyly, her deference as genuine as Celine's was false. "But I came to tell you, that you have a visitor."
"I do?"
"Aye." Her eyes widened. "Lianne Tremaine. The King's Poet," she added at my blank look. "She wishes to call on you, if you're receiving."
"Oh." I blinked. "Is there any reason why I wouldn't be?"
"No." She smiled again, ducking her head and dimpling. "That is entirely up to you, my lady. But if you wish to receive her, I'll tell the kitchen to prepare tea and pastries, shall I?"
"Thank you." I nodded, grateful for her discreet guidance, and began stowing away my papers. "I'll be down directly."
It felt passing strange to be entertaining a guest in Raphael's household as though it were my own. It felt passing strange to be entertaining a guest in any household when it came to it. To be sure, it was a far cry from sharing the goods Cillian had brought on the hearth of our cave or showing him how to catch trout or blanch acorn meal. Still, I'd grown mindful of the importance of appearances in Terre d'Ange and glided into the salon where the King's Poet waited as though I were the mistress of the household.
The woman awaiting me rose. She was younger than I would have expected someone appointed to the post, with light brown hair and keen golden-brown eyes. Something about the cast of her sharp, pretty features put me in mind of a fox.
"Lianne Tremaine?" I inquired. "The King's Poet?"
"Indeed." A quick smile darted across her face. "Well met, Lady Moirin. I was sorry to miss a chance to speak with you at his majesty's fete."
"Oh?" I said politely, at a loss for anything clever to say.
"Oh, indeed." Her tone had a mocking edge, but I didn't sense any malice in it. "These are good times to be alive, but dull times to be a royal poet. Your arrival and last night's dramatic performance are the most interesting thing to happen in years. I'll own, I'm curious. Was it staged?"
I was bewildered. "Was what staged?"
"The scene with Lord Luchese," Lianne said impatiently.
I stared at her. "Do you jest? No!"
She gave a delicate shrug. "One never knows. I wouldn't put it past Raphael de Mereliot. He and the Queen have been known to get… intricate… in their quarrels. Jehanne de la Courcel can compete with almost anything, but a young woman with the ability to bring a man back from death's doorstep… ah, that's another matter altogether. He might have staged the entire thing just to unnerve her." She studied my expression and laughed. "The possibility never occurred to you, did it?"
"No," I admitted.
"Such delightful naivete!" Lianne Tremaine sat uninvited. "Well. Now that it has, do you suppose he did?"
"No." I sat opposite her. Quite apart from my own experience, I had the memory of Raphael in the carriage, the wonder in his voice. "I truly don't."
"So it was real." She steepled her fingers. "What did you do and how did you do it?" Put off by her peremptory manner, I didn't answer. Lianne sighed. "I'm being nosy and