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He had always wondered what the fortune-teller had told Conor; Conor had never revealed it.
A movement at the door caught Kel’s attention. It was Charlon Roverge—his elegant tunic straining over his broad shoulders—escorting Antonetta Alleyne and two other noble young ladies: Mirela Gasquet and Sancia Vasey, whose family did not have a Charter, but had grown wealthy from landholdings in Valderan.
Startled, Kel looked directly at Antonetta. It was something he did not often do. Fortunately, she did not appear to notice: She was looking around the room, a blush coloring her cheeks. She wore a dress of pink lace with fashionably puffed sleeves, a heart-shaped gold locket at her throat.
It was not unheard of for ladies from the Hill to visit the Temple District. It was a delicate dance in which they stood well back and giggled at the scandalous goings-on while never partaking of the lascivious pleasures on offer. Still, until this night, Antonetta—no doubt due to her protective mother—had never been one of them.
Falconet shot Kel an amused look. “I’d invited Antonetta,” he said, in a low voice, “but I didn’t think she’dcome.”
“I’d guess Charlon talked her into it,” Kel said. “She would always do anything if we dared her to, as I recall.”
This was true. As children, they had all been friends—Joss and Charlon, Conor and Kel and Antonetta. They had raided the Palace kitchens and played in the mud together. Antonetta had been fiercely independent then, furious at even the suggestion that she could do less than the boys. She was always longing to prove herself, to climb the highest tree, ride the fastest horse, be the one who snuck into the kitchens to purloin treats, risking the infamous wrath of Dom Valon.
When they were fifteen, she had vanished from their little group. Conor had only said to Kel, “It was time,” and Kel had been miserable and Joss indifferent and Charlon angry, until some time later, when Antonetta made her debut at a ball as one of the Hill’s marriageable young ladies. Her hair had been curled as it was now, tight corsets constricting her movements, her formerly bare and dirty feet now laced into satin slippers.
Kel remembered that debut now as he watched Antonetta smile up at Charlon. She had hurt Kel quite badly that night. Later, Montfaucon had replaced her in their group and begun to introduce the other three to the pleasures of the city. Games and tree climbing had been left behind, for good.
Whether Antonetta knew she was the subject of discussion now, Kel could not be sure. She’d sat down on a velvet chair, her hand against her chest, her mouth open as she took in the room. A picture of wide-eyed naïveté. Heavy-lidded, Roverge leaned on the back of her chair, watching a group of courtesans dance below the painted mural, their movements slow and sensual. He seemed to be trying to point out their activities to Antonetta, but she was watching Conor.
Conor seemed oblivious; he was deep in conversation with Audeta, a freckled girl from Valderan perched on the arm of his chair. Her eyelids were painted in stripes of gold and scarlet that flashed as she blinked.
“If Lady Alleyne catches wind that Charlon brought her precious daughter to the Temple District, she’ll tear out his ribs and make a musical instrument out of them,” said Falconet, sounding as if the prospect amused him.
“I’ll talk to Charlon,” said Kel, and was off across the room before Falconet could stop him. As he got closer to Charlon, he saw that the Roverge heir was playing with a strand of Antonetta’s dark-gold hair. Ten years ago, she would have turned around and pinched him savagely; now she sat calmly, ignoring him. Looking at Conor.
“Charlon.” Kel clapped his friend on the back. Not that Charlon was a friend he would have selected himself, but Conor had known him since the cradle and he was firmly planted in Kel’s life. “Good to see you.” He inclined his head in Antonetta’s direction. “And Demoselle Alleyne. This is a surprise. I would have thought your delicate nature and spotless reputation would have kept you far from a place like this.”
Something flashed across Antonetta’s face—a brief flicker of annoyance. Kel savored it. It was like a glimpse behind an actor’s mask, truth hidden by artifice. A moment later it was gone, and Antonetta was smiling the smile that made him grit his teeth. “You aresolovely to be concerned about me,” she said brightly. “But my reputation is safe. Charlon will look after me, won’t you, Charlon?”
“Quite,” said Charlon, in a tone that made Kel feel as if spiders were marching up his spine. “Her virtue is safe in my keeping.”
Antonetta.He almost wanted to say something, to warn her—but she was already rising to her feet, smoothing down her dress. “Oh, a fortune-teller!” she exclaimed, as if she’d just noticed. “Iadoregetting my fortune told.”
She hurried over to join the crowd around the young man with the cards.
“You won’t get her into bed, Charlon,” said Kel. “You know her mother wants her to marry Conor. And she seems amenable enough to it.”
“Conor won’t have her,” Charlon said, with a lopsided grin. Hehad light brown hair and a pale complexion, a reminder that his mother had been from Detmarch. “He needs to make a foreign alliance. When her dreams come crashing down, I’ll be there to wipe away her tears.”
Kel glanced over at Conor, who had pulled Audeta into his lap. They were sharing the fruit of a cherry, passing it from his mouth to hers. Matters might have escalated from there had Alys not appeared, all apologies, tapping Conor on the shoulder. After a moment of discussion, he rose and followed her from the room, leaving Audeta to turn her attentions to Falconet.
As she left the room, Alys dropped a nearly invisible nod in Kel’s direction.Wait for my signal,she’d said, and he wondered if she’d distracted Conor for his benefit. Surely not; she would not manufacture business with the Prince if she did not truly have any.
With a last glance at Antonetta—her head bent over the fortune-teller’s cards as Sancia squealed at her side—Kel rose to his feet and made his way quietly out of the salon, heading for the back stairs. On the landing two young men were pressed up against a wall, kissing; neither noticed Kel as he went by. He kept going, ever upward, until he reached the last landing and a familiar, unremarkable door.
The first time Kel had seen the library at the Caravel, he’d been surprised. He’d expected whips and blindfolds hanging from the walls, but had found a wood-paneled room full of books, small tables and chairs, the smell of ink and leather and tallow. Small, diamond-paned windows were tucked beneath gables; carcel lamps hung from metal hooks beside them, casting a saffron light. A wooden archway led into a second room, where the rarest books were kept.
“We have the largest collection of books dedicated to the arts of pleasure in all of Dannemore,” Alys had said, with some pride. “Our customers may scan their pages and choose any scenario or act that delights them. No other house offers such.”
Kel wandered to the stacks now, trailing a finger over the leather bindings.A Brief History of Pleasure.(He wondered why that wouldbe better than a lengthy history of the subject, which surely would be more suitable.) Many were from other lands, and Kel’s gaze skipped over the spines, translating:The Mirror of Love, The Perfumed Garden, The Secret Instructions of the Jade Bedchamber.
“You came,” said a voice behind him. “Alys said you would, but I rather wondered.”
Kel rose, turning, and saw a young man about his own age leaning in the archway, his expression open and curious. He was younger than Kel had expected, and pretty as a girl, with pale-gold hair and dark-blue eyes. Kel wondered for a moment if he had Northern blood—which would mean Alys did, too, though it showed less in her. “You’re Merren Asper?” Kel said. “Alys’s brother?”
Merren nodded pleasantly. “And you’re Kel Anjuman, the Prince’s cousin. Now that we have identified each other by our relatives, come and talk,” he said, advancing into the room and pulling out one of the chairs surrounding a long table. He gestured for Kel to sit, too.
Kel complied, studying Merren. He wore the unofficial uniform of a student at the Academie, Castellane’s university: faded black jacket, a loose white cravat at the throat, worn old shoes, and too-long hair. Up close, he could see the resemblance to Alys in Merren’s blue eyes and delicate features. A faint scent rose from his clothes, not unpleasant: something sharp and green, like the freshly cut stems of plants.
