"What in Blessed Elua's name was the Head Priestess doing chasing rats in the granary?" Raphael asked Gemma.

She laughed through her tears. "She's always been a right scourge. Says they carry disease. She doesn't even trust the cats to do a proper job of it."

He shook his head. "I've known Sister Marianne Prichard since I was a boy," he said to me. "She was the royal chirurgeon of House Mereliot for many years. She took vows in Eisheth's Order after my parents died."

"Oh," I said softly.

"I missed her." Raphael's voice was wistful. "When I came to the City, she was one of the first people I sought out."

We arrived at the Temple of Eisheth in short order and disembarked from the carriage. The building and grounds passed in a blur. Raphael and I hurried after Gemma as she hoisted the skirts of her robes and ran through the temple, down one corridor and another.

Gemma halted and flung open a closed door. "Is she—?"

"Shhh." A priest in sea-blue robes put a finger to his lips. There were half a dozen priests and priestesses clustered around a bed in which a small figure lay. "Trouble her not."

"Sister Marianne?" Raphael called. "It's me."

There was an inaudible whisper in reply, followed by a quiet commotion around the bed. With obvious reluctance, the members of Eisheth's Order bowed their heads and stood aside, looking askance at me.

Raphael beckoned. "Come."

I knew nothing of medicine. Even so, it was obvious to me that the elderly woman in the bed was dying. In her sunken face, her eyes were bright with the awareness of it. She shivered feverishly and convulsively. One arm was skinny, the skin loose and wrinkled on the bone. The other was swollen, the skin taut and streaked with red. It seemed to throb visibly.

"Raphael de Mereliot," she whispered.

He knelt and clasped her good hand. "Why did you hide it?"

She gave a near-soundless wheeze of laughter. "The Head Priestess laid low by a rat? I was embarrassed."

"That was foolish."

"Yes." Her fever-bright gaze drifted onto me. Her withered lips twitched in an attempt at a smile. "So this is your witch. She's quite lovely."

"This is Moirin," Raphael said firmly. "She's here to help you. We're here to help you."

Sister Marianne's eyes glazed.

"Ah, no!" I said in alarm.

Raphael rubbed his hands together, generating heat. I could see his gift, Eisheth's gift, coiling around him, rising and ready to encompass mine. I didn't need him to tell me that this would be a more difficult healing than aught we'd attempted. I could see.

We were enclosed in a man-made stone place. I wished we weren't. I closed my eyes and breathed, cycling through the Five Styles of Breathing, drawing energy from every element into every part of me.

His voice cracked. "Moirin, now!"

I wasn't ready.

It didn't matter; there was no time left. Raphael laid his hands over Sister Marianne's heart. I laid my hands over his and summoned the twilight, breathing it out.

Energy flowed out of me and into him.

Out of him and into her.

This time I felt it more keenly. It wasn't only one thing like a broken bone or a tear in the wall of a womb. The poison was everywhere. It was in her blood, seeking to stop her heart. He pushed it back and back and back. It pushed back at him, parting like a stream to slither past his touch.

"More," he whispered.

I gave him more.

The elderly priestess groaned. It was a painful sound, but a good sound. An alive sound.

The red streaks retreated an inch.

Two inches.

"More!"

Was this destiny? I didn't know. I'd passed through the stone doorway. I'd seen the Maghuin Dhonn Herself and the sorrow in Her eyes. It was bright and dark all at once there. The world sparkled before my eyes. I'd seen an ocean. I'd crossed an ocean. I breathed in and out, trying to hold on to a piece of myself. Somewhere, I could hear Gemma weeping; somewhere, I could hear prayers murmured in awestruck voices.

The red streaks receded. Down her arm, past her elbow.

Raphael's voice was exultant. "More!"

More.

The swelling abated. The fever broke. The wound in Sister Marianne's hand burst open and a flood of foul pus drained from it.

Gone.

All gone.

"Gone," I whispered—and fainted.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Sister Marianne lived, and so did I. There was no more talk that day or the next of my leaving Raphael's household. He took me home and tended me himself. I knew he was grateful.

I was glad we'd saved the priestess' life—and yet. How many such efforts did I have left in me?

Would there come a time when the toll was too high?

I didn't know, and it troubled me.

On the third day, a gift arrived from Prince Thierry—an ebony hair-comb inlaid with three emeralds. The accompanying note said he looked forward to seeing me wear it at the ball that evening.

"Surely you're not still going," Raphael said.

"Why not?" I reclined against the pillows, admiring the comb. "So I'll be good and rested for the next emergency that comes along?"

His eyes darkened. "I'm speaking as a physician."

I put the comb down. "You know, if you were speaking as my lover, I might actually listen. Are you escorting Jehanne tonight or is she attending the King?"

Raphael looked away. "His majesty isn't fond of balls."

"Well, I've never been to one," I said. "And I mean to attend this one."

So I did.

The maid Daphne helped me dress for it, chattering all the while. I wore a gown that Benoit Vallon had designed for me, a slender sheath of forest-green satin that left my shoulders bare. She coiled my hair atop my head, pinning it and securing the comb. I applied a touch of kohl to my eyes and carmine to my lips.

The face that gazed back at me in the mirror looked tired. Beautiful, but tired. My father was right. I looked like I'd been ill.

Mayhap I had been.

Mayhap I still was.

A coach bearing the silver swan insignia of House Courcel came for me shortly after nightfall. A solicitous footservant in Courcel livery helped me into the coach. I rested my head against the cushions thinking, I should be happy. And I wasn't.

At the Palace, I made an effort for Thierry's sake. He hurried over the instant the herald announced me. His lips brushed mine. "I'm so glad you came," he said. "And so glad you decided to forgive me."

I took his arm. "So am I."

And I made an effort for my sake. Everything was so very lovely. The hall glowed with warm light. It glinted on the gilded chandeliers; it gleamed on the polished marble floor. It illuminated the faces of the D'Angeline peers in all their finery.

Especially the Queen, with Raphael at her side.

Thierry led me over to greet her. Jehanne was wearing a gown of ivory silk. A coronet of pearls was threaded through her silver-gilt hair and a choker of pale blue topaz winked around her slender throat. Raphael's gift. She looked as beautiful and ethereal as moonlight on new-fallen snow.

I made my greeting and curtsied. "This is all very wonderful. Thank you, your majesty."

"This is a mere trifle." She waved one dismissive hand. "Is it your first?"

"It is."

Jehanne studied me, frowning a little. Another time, her scrutiny would have discomfited me, but I was too weary tonight. "Well. Enjoy yourself."

I curtsied again. "My thanks."

The musicians began to play as Thierry led me away. Everyone watched the Queen, waiting for their cue to take to the dance floor. "That was surprisingly civil," Thierry remarked. "It's all over the City how you saved Sister Marianne's life at the Temple of Eisheth. I'd expected Jehanne to be in a snit over it."

"Oh, well." I shrugged. "Mayhap even her majesty has her limits."

"Mayhap." He sounded doubtful.

We watched Raphael bow and extend his arm to the Queen, escorting her onto the dance floor. He wore a dark brown velvet doublet over fawn-colored breeches, an ivory shirt with a ruffled collar, and cuffs that matched the hue of her gown.

They danced very well together.

They looked lovely together.

Thierry bowed to me. "Are you ready for your first lesson, my lady?"

"Yes, please."

On the floor, I did as he told me—one hand clasped in his, the other resting on his waist. I followed his lead, letting him guide my steps with subtle pressure. As I had suspected, I liked dancing very much. I liked the way we swirled and glided over the floor together, each couple in their own private orbit, instinctively avoiding all others. I thought it must be something like the way the stars and planets moved in their dance, the way everything in the cosmos moved together at once, stately and graceful, never colliding.

Still, it made me a little dizzy.

And more tired.

I danced three times with Thierry, then Marc de Thibideau begged a dance of me. He wasn't nearly as skillful a partner and I tripped over his feet.

"I'm sorry, my lady." He flushed. "It's thanks to you I'm able to dance at all."

"And Raphael," I reminded him.

Marc shook his head. "Without you, he's just another physician."

I thought of the first time Raphael had kissed me, the first time I'd felt my gift intertwine with his. Of Raphael tending to me on the street after his carriage had struck me. Of my aching ribcage and the glorious warmth of his touch dispelling the pain, putting things back in place. "That's not true."

He shrugged. "It's true for me."

There were others, then—too many others. Two or three I didn't know by name. Denis de Toluard, surprising me.

"I thought you were angry at me," I said to him.

His eyes were grave. "I'm hoping you'll reconsider."

Out of the corners of my eyes, I saw trailing flashes of light, candle-flames blurring in my weary vision as Denis spun me into an expert turn. "I won't."

When the song ended, he bowed. "Still. Think on it."

And then Balthasar Shahrizai. He held me close, too close, his hand on my lower back, pressing me to him. I could feel his arousal and tried to pull away. He only pulled me closer.

"Have you no shame?" I asked him.

Balthasar laughed. "You don't know much about House Shahrizai, do you?"

"No," I admitted. "And I'm not sure I'm eager to learn more."

I wished Raphael would claim a dance of me, but he didn't. I was grateful when Thierry reclaimed me, and even more grateful when the music came to a halt. There was a banquet table laid at the far end of the hall. Servants were filing in and out with covered dishes. Jehanne clapped her hands together and proclaimed it time to dine. The musicians resumed playing at softer volume.

The hall spun around me.

"Moirin?" Thierry's hand was beneath my elbow. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." I blinked at him. "I'm fine."

I wasn't fine.

At the banquet table, we were seated across from the Queen and her escort. Of course—Thierry was the Dauphin. He was second in rank to her. The royal chef carved exquisitely thin slices of a roasted beef loin. More servants circulated, pouring wine, serving soup in shallow bowls, dishing out ladles full of mashed tubers and roasted grains, sauteed greens sizzling in fat. Rich sauces were poured. Queen Jehanne gestured—plates were filled.

Beside her, Raphael scowled at me.

"I'm fine," I said in reply to his unspoken reprimand. I reached for my wineglass, misjudged the distance, and knocked it over. Somewhere inside, I winced.

A red stain spread on the white linen covering the table.

"Elua!" Jehanne sounded irritated. "What ails you?"

I closed my eyes. "Nothing."

"It's not nothing." Raphael rose, his voice crisp. "Your majesty, forgive me. I shouldn't have let Moirin come here tonight. She needs bed-rest. I'll escort her home."

Thierry rose, too. "The hell you will, de Mereliot! She'll stay with me."

Back and forth, they argued. With an effort, I cracked my eyes open. All I could see was their arms, braced on the banquet table as they leaned inward and shouted at one another. And Jehanne, looking at once exquisite and annoyed.

I felt homesick.

I wished my father were here.

"I'm sorry, your majesty," I murmured.

"Indeed." Jehanne's gaze flicked from my face to the arguing men and back. Through my haze of exhaustion, I realized it wasn't me who was annoying her. Something in her expression hardened as she came to a decision. "I'm going to rescue you now. Any objections?"

I put my head in my hands. "No."

"Good." She beckoned to her Captain of the Guard and issued a few curt instructions. He bowed, turned and relayed them. One of his men departed. Two others moved to take up positions behind Raphael and Thierry, laying hands on their shoulders as Queen Jehanne stood. "Gentlemen."

She didn't raise her voice; she didn't have to. It cut through their quarrel, cool and smooth as a blade. At her guardsmen's unsubtle urging, they took their seats.

"I'm taking Moirin into my custody," she informed them.

Raphael snorted. "You can't just conscript her, Jehanne! Moirin's not even a D'Angeline citizen. You don't have sovereignty over her."

"I'm not conscripting her," she replied calmly. "I'm saving her from herself, since you, my lord, seem intent on killing her by degrees—and you, your highness, are too ineffectual to do anything about it, assuming you've even noticed."