She turned away, feeling sick, and found that la Fontaine had descended upon them.

“My dear Fleur-du-Mal,” she said, kissing Erec’s cheek, “again you give the lie to your name. Your presence is an unexpected kindness.”

“I promised my lady I’d accompany her,” said Erec, somehow making it sound as if Rachelle had begged him to come because she could not stand to be parted from him for an hour.

La Fontaine raised pale eyebrows at Rachelle. “And you, my dear, what are we to call you?”

Rachelle had no idea what was the correct courtly thing to answer, but she wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet. “Isn’t ‘mademoiselle’ good enough?”

“But of course not,” said la Fontaine. “We are no longer in Château de Lune; we stand now in the gentle land of Tendre, where there is neither court nor title, but all dwell in harmony alike.” Her voice was such a perfect blend of honey and vinegar that Rachelle had no idea if she adored the idea or mocked it. “Even I, goddess of the realm, am addressed by my name only, and anyone may sit in my presence.”

“Goddess,” Rachelle said blankly.

“It was my mother, la Belle-Précieuse, who brought Tendre out of nothing,” said la Fontaine. “She peopled it with the most charming of this world and left it to me for my only inheritance. As daughter of the Supreme Creatrix, I believe I may lay claim to the word.”

“You can certainly claim it,” said Erec. “But you might face a challenge or two.”

“Gladly,” said la Fontaine. “I’ll rout them with my beauty for an army and my wits as cavalry. But that does not solve the problem of our nameless darling. Whatever shall we call her?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Erec. “She wields a sword to protect our people. Surely ‘la Pucelle’ is the only possible name for such a brave maiden.” He said the words with a little ironic smile, as if the obvious difference between Rachelle and the legendary warrior saint was a very elegant joke.

La Fontaine’s eyebrows arched exquisitely. “A maiden, after all that time at your side? Truly, a miracle worthy of a saint.”

“And yet it would be a miracle if she favored me,” said Erec. “Pity me, for even in the land of Tendre I receive no tenderness.” He laid a mocking, elegant hand over his heart.

“Yes,” said la Fontaine. “I like it. And just think”—she turned back to Rachelle—“you would have your own holy day, without the tiresome work of sainthood.”

Rachelle looked at the colorless, glittering gems in la Fontaine’s earrings and silently gave up on making Amélie proud of her ability to act like a lady.

“I killed somebody and I’m not sorry,” she said, calmly and very distinctly. “I don’t think you want me on your altars unless blasphemy is the custom of your kingdom.”

There was a moment of grandly awkward silence in which Rachelle noticed that everyone in the room was looking at them, which meant that everybody had been listening. It gave her a certain grim satisfaction.

Then Armand—who had apparently dismissed his flock of worshippers—said cheerfully, “Well, we needn’t worry about blaspheming heathen gods. So how about Zisette? Since you have also walked into the Forest and come out again.”

Rachelle snorted. Walking out of the Forest was not the most important way that she was like Zisa. But when she met Armand’s eyes, there didn’t seem to be any hidden mockery in his face. It felt like he wanted her to smile back at him.

“If you must,” she said.

“That’s as kind an answer as you’re likely to get from my lady,” said Erec.

“Then come with us, Zisette,” said la Fontaine, “and let the land of Tendre teach you kindness.”

Rachelle truly doubted that the land of Tendre had much to do with kindness, but she let herself be guided to a little stool with a red silk cushion. Armand sat down at her right. To her left was a tall woman with dark hair and a face like a marble statue’s. She turned languidly toward Rachelle and said, “Tell me, what does it feel like?”

Rachelle gave her a blank look.

“Oh, how could I be so rude?” said the woman. “Here in Tendre, I am l’Étoile-Polaire, and it is such a delight to meet you, Zisette. Now please, I am dying to know: what does it feel like to be a bloodbound?”

“I don’t know,” said Rachelle. “What does it feel like to be a lady?”

There was chatter in other parts of the room—la Fontaine was raising her eyebrows and speaking to an old man—but the people nearby were staring at her, and she knew that any moment they would all start laughing.

“Not as thrilling, I’m sure,” said l’Étoile-Polaire. “You have the Great Forest in your blood. Sometimes I think I envy you.”

“Darling, you don’t envy her,” said an older woman who wore an enormous powdered wig. “She has to fight the woodspawn all night.”

“Won’t she be sorry when Endless Night falls,” said a colorless young man with so much lace at his throat it looked like it might strangle him. “Nothing but work, work, work forever after.”

“You mean if it falls,” said the older woman. “We’re supposed to keep the sun in the sky by weeping over our sins, aren’t we? I think that’s what our tiresome Bishop said.”

“Weeping is too much trouble.” L’Étoile-Polaire sighed. “I’ll just have to die in eternal darkness.”

All three of them burst into soft, inane laughter that made Rachelle want to scream. They were rich enough to burn lamps all night long; they didn’t have to go out on errands when woodspawn were roaming the streets. So they didn’t believe in the return of Endless Night. None of the nobility did.

“I don’t think I could bear killing things,” said a young girl wearing a dress that was the exact same pale yellow as the curls piled atop her head. “Even woodspawn.”

“But you forget,” said the young man. “She’s already killed somebody, the naughty girl.” He gave Rachelle a grin that looked like it was trying to be rakish.

“Of course, I did forget,” said l’Étoile-Polaire, and once again slowly drifted her gaze back to Rachelle. “Who was it?”

Rachelle stared at them. She had expected to be mocked or scorned. That was how it went in the city: people despised her for being bloodbound, or laughed at her for being a peasant from the north end of nowhere.