This would be our first time together, truly together.

“Night and Day,” Favrielle nó Eglantine pronounced. “I see no other choice.”

“No?” Sidonie asked mildly. “After all, I’ve already—”

The couturiere’s eyes narrowed. “None.” Snapping her fingers, she uttered an order to one of her assistants. “Bring the fabric.”

It was gorgeous beyond all expectation. One bolt was black velvet, a black so dense it seemed to absorb light. The other was silk. It was a pale gold hue, almost white, like the radiance of the sun at high noon; but to describe it thus does it no justice. It flowed like liquid sunlight, shimmering with its own inner brilliance. Favrielle handled it with reverence.

“I discovered this in the stores of Eglantine House when I was fourteen,” she said. “No one ever dared use it. When I first had my own salon, I nearly beggared myself to buy it.” She smiled wryly. “And then I never dared use it.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said sincerely.

Favrielle held up a length. “It is the essence of daylight itself.” She sniffed. “Not some tawdry cloth-of-gold.” She shot a challenging glance at Sidonie, who hid a smile.

“It’s remarkable,” Sidonie said. “Truly.”

“I thought, mayhap, one day Joscelin Verreuil would consent to attend the Queen’s fête with Phèdre instead of keeping Elua’s vigil,” Favrielle mused. “I would have done it for them. But you’ll do, the two of you.”

I kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Favrielle.”

She glowered at me. “Go away, now.”

The days grew short; the nights grew long. In the salon of Favrielle nó Eglantine, seamstresses sewed feverishly. Our costumes took shape.

Night and Day.

Our fittings were held separately. I didn’t see Sidonie’s costume until the Longest Night. Mine was exquisitely simple: breeches and a doublet of unadorned black velvet, flat and fathomless. One of Favrielle’s endlessly patient assistants spent hours brushing my hair and tying hundreds of tiny crystal beads into it. When she was done, it fell over my shoulders like a cloak of the night sky itself.

“Perfection,” she said, tying my mask in place. It was a simple domino of muted silver, a crescent moon rising like horns on my brow.

When at last I saw Sidonie, it took my breath away. I’d dressed in my own quarters. Her guards came to fetch me that we might enter the ballroom together. All I could do was stare at her.

It was simple, too—and subtle, infinitely more subtle than the Sun Princess costume. The pale silk glowed with soft luminosity, unadorned, clinging to the curves of her body in a way that made my mouth go dry. She wore long gloves of the same white-gold fabric, but her creamy shoulders and the length of her back were bare. Her golden hair was coiled in an artful coronet, a radiating sunburst affixed to the back of her head. Behind the softly gilded domino, her eyes looked like pools of night.

“Do you like it?” Sidonie asked.

“You look so beautiful it hurts,” I said truthfully.

She smiled. “So do you.”

It should have been a perfect night.

It wasn’t.

For a long time, it promised to be. There was a little hush when Sidonie and I made our entrance, but it passed. This was the Longest Night, a time for joy and revelry. We had a good many friends and supporters amid the throng, and even Ysandre managed to greet us with considerable aplomb. Phèdre was there, of course, escorted by Ti-Philippe.

“Elua!” she breathed. “So that’s what Favrielle’s been hiding.”

I laughed. “She said she would have used it for you and Joscelin if he’d ever consented to attend.”

“No.” Phèdre shook her head. “No, it’s perfect for you. Both of you.” She kissed me lightly, smiled at Sidonie. “You look splendid together.”

We drank joie, danced and mingled with friends, sat at the laden table and dined together. As the hour of midnight drew nigh, the usual sense of anticipation mounted. There were no surprises this year. The horologist called the hour, and the great hall was plunged into darkness. The Winter Queen hobbled out of her false crag, leaning on a blackthorn staff. The Sun Prince entered in his chariot to a drumroll and resounding cheers, pointing his spear at her and restoring her to youth. The oil-soaked wicks were lit, light returning in a sudden blaze.

Sidonie released her breath in a sigh. “I never tire of the spectacle.”

“Neither do I.” I touched her cheek. “You are my sunlight, Sidonie. The sun in my sky and the moon in my heavens. All that’s bright and good in my life.” I smiled. “And a little bit that’s dark, too.”

“You’re uncommonly sentimental,” she observed.

“I’m uncommonly happy.” I spread my arms. “And a little bit drunk.”

She laughed and caught my hand. “Dance with me.”

Catching sight of us returning to the dance floor, one of the musicians grinned and gestured to his fellows. They switched smoothly into a slow, romantic melody. As we danced, I thought about all the Longest Nights I had known. I thought about the fact that a year ago, I’d been in Vralia. I thought about all the times I had danced with Sidonie. The first time, it had been on the Longest Night, too. That was when we’d bickered and I’d given her my oath on impulse.

It seemed impossible now, remembering how formal and careful we had been with one another. Sidonie had held me at a distance. I’d scarce touched her. Later, after we’d become lovers, we’d struggled to recapture that sense of cool formality. At the fête for her seventeenth birthday, we’d tripped over one another’s feet, absurdly awkward in our efforts to disguise how well our bodies knew one another, how well we moved together. It made me laugh aloud to remember it.

“What’s funny?” Sidonie asked.

“Nothing.” I whirled her. “Only that I love you.”

She smiled. “Oh, that. ’Tis enough to make the gods laugh.”

Now it was the Longest Night, and it was a simple, blessed pleasure to hold her in my arms with no barriers between us—no mistrust, no awkwardness, no pretense. The music swooped and swirled in long, poignant arcs. We danced effortlessly. Tomorrow the world of politics and its burdens would be awaiting us. Tonight there was only music and joie.

And us.

The song ended, and another began. We stood without moving; night and day, reflecting one another. Sidonie gazed up at me. “‘The lover showers kisses on the face of the beloved’,” she quoted softly from the Trois Milles Joies.

“‘Like petals falling in a summer rain’,” I finished, kissing her.

“Whore!”

The epithet was harsh and shocking. A violin screeched to a halt. A very drunken lord costumed as a Tiberian imperator staggered onto the dance floor, his purple-edged robes disheveled, a laurel wreath askew on his dark hair.

“Whore!” he repeated, spitting the word at Sidonie. “You robbed me for his sake. Everyone knows.”

Sidonie’s guards were trying to push through the throng, but everyone on the dance floor was pressed tight around us, eagerly watching the spectacle. I edged my body in front of her. “Who in the hell are you, man?”

“Your neighbor,” he spat. “Your vassal, my greedy, treasonous, pandering liege!” He waved a flask, his tone turning bitterly sardonic. “Care for a swig of Muscat?”

“Jean Le Blanc?” I asked.

“Everyone knows!” He pointed at Sidonie, swaying. “You. You wouldn’t even hear my suit. Everyone knows. Walking around all day, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Spreading your legs for that traitor-spawn, rutting like an animal all night. Your guards talk. They laugh. Everyone knows.”

“That is a cursed lie!” Claude de Monluc squeezed through the crowd, his hand on his sword-hilt, his face flushed with fury. “Your guards don’t talk, my lady,” he said to Sidonie. “And they certainly don’t laugh.”

Jean Le Blanc sneered. “Don’t deny the rutting, do you?”

“No one denies the rutting, my lord.” Sidonie’s voice was cool and remarkably calm. “That’s why I refused to hear your suit. Apparently your advocate chose not to waste my mother’s time with it.” She studied him. “Did someone suggest otherwise to you?”

He looked away, uncertain.

I followed his gaze and saw Barquiel L’Envers grinning. He caught my eye and gave me a mocking salute. “Oh, Elua and his Companions have mercy on me!” I said in disgust. “Is this what you’ve been reduced to, L’Envers?”

“He said . . .” Le Blanc swayed. “His advocate said . . .”

“Listen to me, you thrice-cursed idiot.” I grabbed a handful of his white robe and shook him. “He put you up to this, didn’t he? Pushing your suit after it had been settled fairly. Lending you his advocate. Why?” I tightened my grip. “More of my damned mother’s legacy?”

Le Blanc had turned pale, but he found a measure of his dignity. “It’s not old history. Not to some of us. I fought at Troyes-le-Mont, but I couldn’t protect my own family.” His mouth worked. “My wife . . . my wife was raped. Many times. She killed herself.”

I let go of him. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not!” he said in anguish. “Dancing and laughing and kissing—”

“And rutting,” Sidonie murmured.

His hands tightened into fists. “Don’t,” I said to her. “My lord, believe me, I’m sorrier than you know, but we have no quarrel here. You were urged to bring a foolish suit and misled about its outcome.” I pointed at L’Envers. “He took your grief and turned it to his own purposes for what amounts to little more than a childish prank. So tell me, my lord, where your anger lies.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

“You’re drunk,” Claude de Monluc said crisply. “Drunk, and a disgrace to the Court. Her highness has acted correctly in all legal matters, which is all that need concern you. You may apologize and leave.”

“I can’t.” Le Blanc glanced at Sidonie. “I just . . . can’t.”

He left, though, miserable and stumbling, a pathetic figure. No one accompanied him, least of all his patron L’Envers. I felt sick at heart.

“Uncle.” Queen Ysandre’s voice sliced through the crowd, filled with rare fury. Her guards cleared the throng. Glittering in wintry white, her mask discarded, she confronted L’Envers. “You go too far,” she said grimly. “Urging that poor man to profane the Longest Night.”

“Ysandre . . .” he said in a placating tone, gesturing at Sidonie and me. “They flaunt—”

“I don’t care!” Color rioted on her cheekbones. “They’re in love. I don’t like it; you don’t like it. No one likes it, except mayhap the Night Court and folk too young to remember. But Name of Elua! It’s the Longest Night, and I will have peace in my Court. Since you’ve broken it, you may take your leave.”

If it was a contest of wills, L’Envers lost. He bowed stiffly and departed.

“Thank you,” Sidonie said quietly to her mother.

“Don’t.” Ysandre rounded on her. “Just . . .” She drew a sharp breath, her violet gaze settling on me. “Find her,” she said simply. “I’m willing to place resources at your disposal once you do. Whatever it takes to bring Melisande Shahrizai to justice, I will provide. Bribery, diplomacy, force of arms. Only find her, Imriel.”

“I will,” I promised.

Eight

Winter’s grip on the land began to ease.

I wrote to Diokles Agallon, the Ephesian ambassador, a member of the Unseen Guild.

It was a calculated risk. I was circumspect in what I wrote. I promised nothing; I didn’t dare, not knowing what he might ask. I didn’t mention my mother by name. I alluded to our conversation in roundabout terms. I implied that if he had learned aught of the origins of a certain medallion, I might be willing to ply whatever influence I wielded in exchange for the knowledge.

Might.

I made no promises.

“You did make one promise,” Sidonie reminded me, dark eyes grave. “You promised Alais a puppy come spring.”

I winced. “I’d forgotten.”

She kissed me. “She’s like to forgive you. She’s got larger matters to consider.”

Of a surety, that was true. Unlike Sidonie, I’d always regarded Alais as a sister, a true sister. And although she was young, she was older now than Sidonie had been when first I’d begun to fall in love with her. Alais was still affianced to her own cousin in Alba, Drustan’s nephew, Talorcan. The wedding had been postponed a number of times.

Everything had been so certain once.

The lines of succession in Alba were matrilineal. Terre d’Ange had feared losing its foothold. That was why Ysandre and Drustan had pressed me to wed Dorelei, Talorcan’s sister. Our son would have been his heir.

Our son, the monster.

Now Alais was pressing for change. She was willing to wed Talorcan . . . but she wanted assurance that their children would inherit.

“I don’t blame her,” Sidonie said. “’Tis a rule based on men’s mistrust of women and fear of being cuckolded. I daresay there are any number of Alban women who would support her in this, and a few men, too, when you come to it.”

“Drustan’s thoughts changed after he became a father, didn’t they?” I asked.