She had felt it, I was sure.

“My . . . mother,” I said.

Her eyes danced. “Are you sure? You sound uncertain.”

It had been her ladyship who’d taught me, of course; or at least taught me to play well. Chess was a useful game to learn, although it had its limits. In a true game of intrigue, every piece on the board would be a live player, filled with weaknesses and flaws. Still, it had its merits.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “She’s a great knack for the game.”

“Does your mother also serve in Cythera?” the princess inquired.

“She’s Ptolemy Solon’s mistress,” I said, conflating one lie with another. Her brows rose. I smiled ruefully. “In truth, I suspect her wit and beauty held as much appeal for my lord Solon as my father’s cuisine. They have always been discreet, but my father, may Elua bless and keep him, died two years ago. Since then, the liaison has been openly acknowledged.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “Which is why his eminence holds you in such high esteem.”

“Not the entire reason, I hope,” I said.

Her smile was genuine. “I’m sure it’s not.”

My heart gave one of those involuntary leaps. I almost wished she wouldn’t smile at me like that. It actually hurt. I busied myself setting up the chess board for another game, watching her out of the corner of my eye. “Your victory was swift, my lady. Do you wish to play again?”

“No.” The princess rested her chin on one hand. Sunlight glinted on her signet ring. “I’m growing weary of chess, Leander Maignard.”

“Just Leander,” I said.

She gave me an amused look. “I’m considering it.”

One audience a day, four games of chess. Five days, five gowns. Today she wore a pale lavender, which I didn’t think was her best hue. A choker of pearls and amethyst, earrings to match. Over the course of five days, there had been only one constant. I knew; I’d been keeping track. If she was growing bored with chess, it was time for me to make a move of a different sort. I took a deep breath and did it.

“That’s an interesting ring, my lady,” I said. “Is that the seal of the House of Sarkal?”

“This?” She twisted it on her finger. “Yes. Rather crude work, isn’t it?”

“May I see it?” I asked.

Her expression turned quizzical. “If you like.”

It slid easily from her finger. I held out my hand. Our fingers didn’t quite touch as she dropped it into my palm. I examined the stone, a ruby cabochon engraved with the Sarkal hawk insignia. I peered under my lashes at her. Her expression was unchanged, still puzzled. “A family heirloom, I imagine. It’s very old. Do you wear it in honor of your husband?”

“At Astegal’s request, yes.” Her mouth quirked. “Only in public, to tell the truth. I appreciate its value and history, but it’s a bit heavy.”

“Ah.” A stab of disappointment went through me. I handed the ring back to her. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Oh, he knows.” The princess laughed. “He doesn’t mind as long as I wear it publicly.”

It definitely wasn’t the ring, then. The bastard just liked the world to see he’d set his seal on her. The thought filled me with fury and disgust, so much so I lowered my face to hide it, not trusting myself. “I heard he might be sending for you soon,” I murmured. “To winter in New Carthage.”

“Yes, mayhap within the next fortnight.” She slid the ring back on her finger. “Name of Elua, I hope so.”

“You miss him.” I said it without looking at her.

“Very much so.” Her voice softened briefly, then resumed its light tone. “And I’m perishing of tedium. I’m grateful to you for alleviating it.”

I did look at her then, looked her hard in the eyes. For the first time, it was the princess who flushed slightly. “I’ve a fancy to see New Carthage.” I forced my tone to match her lightness. “Perhaps you’ll invite me as your faithful courtier.”

She looked away. “Why don’t we venture out, Messire Maignard? As you note, ’tis early yet. I feel I’ve scarce had a chance to see old Carthage before trading it for the new.”

I offered a seated bow. “Your wish is my command.”

Within a short time, we were seated in her ornate double palanquin, venturing into the streets of Carthage on the shoulders of her bearers. It was the closest I’d been to her. There was a gap of a mere six inches between us, and I could swear it felt charged with heat.

“What do you wish to see?” I asked her.

“Mayhap we could make an offering at the Temple of Tanit,” she said. “It’s always wise to honor the gods of a place, don’t you think?”

“To be sure,” I agreed.

Her bearers were smooth and swift, far more skilled than my lads. The four Amazigh guards flanked the palanquin, silent and menacing in their dark robes and veils. Folk on the street called out good wishes for the princess’ health and bowed toward the palanquin, but no one dared approach. Sidonie de la Courcel acknowledged them with the gracious politeness of someone who’d spent a lifetime receiving similar tribute.

The goddess Tanit was akin to Asherat-of-the-Sea, an ancient goddess who had taken many forms and many names. Her ladyship had spent many, many years claiming sanctuary in the Temple of Asherat in La Serenissima. I thought about that when we arrived at our destination, awed once more by her capacity for patience.

The priests scurried and bowed, eyeing the Amazigh warily, offering the princess solicitous advice. One priest was sent running, his sandals slapping against the marble floor. He returned carrying a white rooster by its legs. It was alive, its wings flapping awkwardly. I saw the princess’ mask of politeness slip as she recoiled.

“Name of Elua, man!” I said to the priest. “They don’t offer blood sacrifice in Terre d’Ange.” I fished in my purse for a gold coin. “Surely the goddess finds the scent of incense pleasing?”

He bowed. “Yes, yes, of course.”

“Thank you, Leander.” The princess was slightly pale. “I’d forgotten they made live offerings in Carthage. That was careless of me.”

“I doubt that happens often,” I said. “You hardly seem the careless type.”

“No.” My words seemed to strike some chord within her, her puzzled look returning. “Not often.”

We made our offerings of incense, gazing at the face of the massive effigy. The goddess Tanit’s features were calm and unreadable, her eyes fixed on the unknowable distance. She didn’t look like a goddess who craved blood and suffering. Divine Tanit, I prayed silently, if you have compassion and mercy in you, do not suffer your children to do ill in your name. Help me to undo what has been done.

What prayer the princess offered, I couldn’t say. I only knew her face looked very solemn.

And she had called me by name.

I longed to hear her say it again.

Afterward, she seemed oddly melancholy. I directed the bearers to take us to the flower market, where I purchased another absurdly large bunch of roses and laid them at her feet on the floor of the palanquin.

It made her laugh. “Now you’re just being foolish.”

I bowed elaborately. “If you will not accept it as a tribute to your beauty, accept it as a tribute to your victory today.”

“You’re magnanimous in defeat. Nonetheless, I cannot accept this gift.” Princess Sidonie picked up one of the roses. There were children loitering at a distance, wide-eyed and curious. She tossed the rose to a pretty little girl who caught it with a shriek of delight. The others began to beg. Smiling, the princess tossed the rest of the roses, one by one until they were gone.

It was a nice piece of subtle diplomacy. It was also so damned charming, I caught a couple of the Amazigh guards with eyes crinkled in the suggestion of hidden smiles. “Well played, my lady,” I said to her.

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Tell me, Leander Maignard, what game is it you think we’re playing?”

“One that I hope will while away the hours and alleviate your tedium.” I placed my hand on my chest. “Have no fear, I know how it ends. With you in the arms of your husband and me broken-hearted.”

I’d spoken in a light, jesting tone—or at least I’d meant to. But she heard somewhat more in it. Whether I succeeded or failed, there was a bitter truth to my words, somewhat I’d not yet begun to consider. She studied me for a moment, then looked away. “It grows late. I should return home.”

“As you wish,” I said.

We sat in silence in the palanquin. Gods, I wanted to touch her so badly. Cut through the banter, cut through the spell that bound her. And I couldn’t. Not here, not in public, not with guards watching. I needed to get her alone somehow, and I couldn’t think how to do it.

I was pondering the problem when the palanquin jolted to an abrupt halt. The two Amazigh preceding us were giving orders in Punic to the bearers, pointing and gesturing. I sensed the princess stiffen beside me.

“Is there trouble?” I asked.

“No.” Her expression was unreadable. “I need to . . . no.”

It was my turn to be perplexed. “All right.”

Whatever it was, the Amazigh and the bearers sorted it out. We changed course and took a different route back to the House of Sarkal’s villa. The princess was quiet and withdrawn, and I was fearful I’d made a misstep.

“May I call on you tomorrow?” I asked before I took my leave. “Or have I begun to contribute to your tedium?”

“No, of course not.” She gave me a quick, absentminded smile, and I realized that whatever disturbed her, it had naught to do with me. “I’ve enjoyed your company, Leander. I’ll send word.”

I bowed. “I will await it.”

Thirty-Three

When I returned from taking exercise with Sunjata on the morrow, there was word awaiting me—but it was from Bodeshmun, not the princess. He wished for me to call on him immediately at the College of Horology.

Of course, I complied.

I found him distracted and pacing. As before, he was an abrupt and ungracious host, not offering so much as a cup of water. I bowed deeply, keeping my tone light and unconcerned. Harmless. Oddly, it was a great deal easier to do with Bodeshmun than it was with Princess Sidonie.

“You wished to see me, my lord?”

He fetched up before me, glowering. “You took her into the city.”

“So I did,” I said. “Was that wrong?”

Bodeshmun’s deep-set eyes flashed. “I would prefer that you did not, not without consulting me. It is imperative that her contacts be . . . managed.”

I shrugged. “She made an offering to Tanit and threw some flowers to children in the marketplace. There was no harm in it.”

“There might have been,” he said grimly.

“My lord, she’s bored.” I spread my hands. “I accompanied her into the city at her own request. If you wish to keep her distracted and under the impression that she’s not a prisoner for the next fortnight, I suggest you provide her with a few more of these managed contacts, because I fear my charming banter and impressive chess skills are wearing thin.”

My suggestion earned me one of his quelling looks. “I didn’t become Chief Horologist to play master of revels for a bored young princess!”

I stifled a smile. “Nonetheless.”

Bodeshmun sighed. “I’ll think on it. Until then, you will agree to no further excursions.”

“You wish me to refuse her?” I asked.

His broad mouth twisted sardonically. “I’m confident you’ll think of some cause. I understand you’ve done quite well at playing the blushing admirer while dancing clear of any . . . awkward . . . topics. Whoever taught you to dissemble is to be commended.”

I inclined my head. “My thanks, my lord.”

“Go.” He waved one hand. “And remember that if that glib tongue of yours should slip, I’ll have it cut out. Keep my warning in mind.”

“I always do,” I said with perfect sincerity.

The encounter with Bodeshmun didn’t trouble me overmuch. At least he was a known danger, and the meeting confirmed he still thought me harmless, a useful fool. But Sidonie . . . Sidonie was another matter. Gods, what was it she’d overheard the Amazigh say yesterday that had disturbed her? I wished I’d had time to learn Punic. If I’d had any idea I’d be in this position one day, I would have learned it years ago.

And what if she didn’t send for me again?

The thought of not seeing her made my heart ache. And the thought of failing—of leaving her a spell-bound pawn in Carthage’s hands, happily spreading her legs in Astegal’s bed—filled me with sick fury.

When a letter inviting me to dine with her that evening came later in the day, I nearly laughed aloud with relief. It was ludicrous. Never in my life had I felt such absurd, soaring joy.

I’d heard it described, though.

That was the awful irony of it. The day I’d accompanied Prince Imriel to the Temple of Aphrodite on Cythera, I’d asked him what it was like to be in love. And impossible as it seemed . . . yes. That was how I felt. As though my heart could burst, flaying my chest. As though I could leap off a cliff and take wing.

And then it changes, he had said. It becomes a part of you.

He had been speaking of Sidonie.

She loved him. Not me—him. What I’d said to her yesterday was true. Whatever I felt for her, it didn’t matter. Whether I succeeded or failed, this would end with Sidonie de la Courcel in another man’s arms, and me broken-hearted. The only difference was whether or not her happiness would be a faltering lie or joyous truth. And astonishingly enough, that had begun to matter to me.