"It's not that simple," she whispered. "Not for me."

"I say it is." I extended my hand. "Shall we part?"

"Friends." She pronounced the word bitterly. "You leave me little choice."

I shook her hand gravely. "There are worse things in the world, Claudia Fulvia."

To that, she made no reply.

Thus, the second step, that was in some ways the hardest. But once it was done, I felt good. I'd spent so much time and effort running away from my life and identity that it felt good to reclaim it.

I spoke to Eamonn that evening in private, just the two of us in a dark corner of the wineshop. We spoke in the Eiran dialect, which was one tongue I could be reasonably certain no casual bystander would know. I was rusty enough in its usage myself. If for some reason the Guild had set spies on me, well and so. If they were that determined and clever, there was little I could do about it.

I told him about Claudia.

Not about the Unseen Guild, of course; I wasn't fool enough to test their limits. But I told him about our affair. How it had begun, and how long it had continued. He let out a low whistle at the initial revelation, then sat quiet and listened while I told him the rest. I told him, then, of my night on the isle of Asclepius, and my decisions that had followed.

"I'll miss you," he said. "I understand why you're leaving, but I'll miss you. I'm glad you're staying for Lucius' wedding." He gave me one of his shrewd looks. "So it's over, then? You and Claudia Fulvia?"

"Definitely," I said.

Eamonn swirled his wine, then drank. "It's funny," he said pensively. "This would be nothing in Terre d'Ange. But here…" He glanced at me. "Do you think she'll talk?"

I shook my head. "She has her reputation to uphold."

He smiled a little. "Sounds like heavy lifting from what you say. Imri, are you going to tell Lucius?"

"Gods, no!" I shuddered. "No, I plan to tell him the truth about who I am. I reckon I owe him that much. But I don't think he needs to know I've been bedding his sister."

"I suppose not," he mused. "May I tell Brigitta?"

"About Claudia?"

"No." Eamonn grinned at me. "About you, your highness."

"You trust her?" I asked.

"Aye, I do," he said simply.

I thought about it. "Give me a couple days to talk to Lucius. And mind, while I've come to terms with the fact that I can't hide from who I am, I'd rather not have it noised about, either. At this point, it would just be compounding folly." I laughed. "You don't suppose she'll want to stab me through the heart for the honor of Skaldia once she knows, do you?"

Eamonn pursed his lips. "I don't think so."

It was another day before I had a chance to speak to Lucius. A message arrived from the Temple of Asclepius that Gilot was ready to come home. He had derived as much benefit as he could from their healing skills; from this point onward, only time and rest would help. I went to the market with Anna that morning, and we purchased an array of cushions and thick bolster pillows to make him more comfortable.

Her daughter Belinda accompanied us. She swung on her mother's skirts and chattered incessantly, no longer shy of me. I laughed when a mortified Anna tried to hush her.

"I don't mind," I said. "I used to know a little girl much like her."

"At the Palace?" she asked, then flushed to the roots of her hair. "Oh!"

"It's all right," I said gently. "Gilot told you, I know. Just don't speak of it in public. But no, it was at the sanctuary where I grew up. Her name was Honore," I said to Belinda. "I taught her how to climb trees when she was only five years old. Have you ever climbed a tree?" She gazed at me with wide eyes and shook her head. "Well, mayhap I'll teach you, when you're older." I smiled at her. "Only a little one to start. And no honey trees, Belinda. That's where the bees live."

"I like honey," she said solemnly.

"Oh, so do I. But you have to be very careful, or the bees will get angry that you're stealing their honey." I made a buzzing sound and snaked one hand through the air, landing to give her plump cheek a soft tweak that made her giggle. "And if you get stung, we'll have to slather you in mud," I added, provoking a fresh fit of mirth. "All mud, head to toe."

Anna regarded me with astonishment. "You're very good with her."

I smiled wryly. "You needn't be so surprised."

She flushed anew. "No! It's just… I think you have a kind heart, that's all. And I begin to see why… why Gilot won't leave you, even though he grumbles."

I nearly made a self-deprecating comment, then caught myself. "Thank you," I said sincerely. "It's good of you to say so."

We fetched Gilot home that afternoon, and he did grumble. He grumbled about the ungainly splint on his right hand, his own slow-moving progress and general uselessness. He grumbled when I made him ride in a hired litter, and when we propped him up on his pallet he grumbled about the cushions being like a damned pasha's boudoir. And then he fell asleep, exhausted. His face looked thin and worn, still faintly discolored around the eyes.

"He's so beautiful," Anna whispered, stroking the hair from his brow.

I perched on a chair, watching them. "Yes."

"Listen to me, saying that to you" Her soft laugh caught in her throat. "But you're like something out of a picture or a song, and he's… he's just Gilot. I can touch him, I can hold him. I never thought I'd feel that again, not like this." She bowed her head, but not before I saw the sheen of tears on her cheek. "Do you think he'll be all right?" she asked in a low tone.

"I don't know, Anna," I said honestly. "I hope so. But it will be difficult. He was a swordsman. It's all he's ever known, ever since he came of age and joined Phèdre's service. I promise, he'll want for naught. But he's going to need you, you and Belinda, to give him a reason to live."

She was still for a moment, then gathered herself, wiping her eyes. "Belinda. Forgive me, my lord. We're imposing. I'll take her home."

Belinda was sound asleep on my pallet, thumb in her mouth.

"Will she take a fright if she wakes here?" I asked. Anna shook her head. "Then stay." I rose. "I'll find lodging elsewhere."

"Oh please, my lord!" Anna got to her feet. "No, we mustn't."

Gilot stirred, murmuring restlessly in his sleep.

"I insist," I said, reaching for the door. "Stay."

She glanced at Gilot, then at me, her brows knit. "You would be welcome to my room, if it's not too humble."

"Is it worse than this?" I gestured around.

"No." Anna smiled through her tears. "You're a funny sort of prince, my lord."

"So I'm told," I said.

I left them there, lingering in the courtyard long enough to hear Anna bar the door against intruders. Through the irregular slats of the latched shutters, I could see her bend tenderly to kiss her daughter and Gilot, then blow out the last oil lamp. Oddly enough, my envy had dissipated. In its place, there was an aching tenderness, heavy and poignant.

"May Elua bless and keep you," I whispered.

And then I found my way to Anna's apartment, climbing the outer stair to the second story, and slept alone on the widow's pallet, with her daughter's empty cot beside me.

Even a stunted tree reaches for sunlight.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Master Piero lectured on the virtue of honesty.

I swear, betimes the man chose his topics purely to provoke me. We met in his lecture hall at the University, and I sat on my three-legged stool, chin in hand, listening to flies drone while he railed against the myriad ways a lie can fester in one's soul, lies breeding lies, even as flies hatch maggots in an open wound.

"Ugh!" Brigitta commented.

Afterward, we argued the matter—lies of intent, lies of omission, lies of kindness. Whether there was merit in any of them. I argued that there was. That some secrets were meant to be kept, too injurious to be made known.

"Truth, like fire, cauterizes," Master Piero said tranquilly. "Can you think of a secret better kept than exposed, Imriel nó Montrève?"

"I can think of a few, Master," I muttered.

He smiled at me. "Think harder."

I did, then. I thought about my mother's legacy of secrecy and plotting; one for which it seemed I had a knack. I wondered, for the first time, what my life would be like if she had simply succumbed, handing my infant self over to Ysandre de la Courcel to be raised as a member of House Courcel. But as Asclepius had said, the past could not be altered without changing the present. If I had never been hidden by a priest's lie, there would have been no one to challenge Angra Mainyu in Daršanga. There were no easy answers.

It made my head ache to think on it.

I was glad when Master Piero dismissed us. "Lucius!" I caught his arm. "Are you free this afternoon? I'll stand you a jug of wine."

Things had been cool between us since I'd managed to insult his friendship, but he gave me a measuring look and nodded. "All right. Let's go to the baths first. It's perishing hot out there."

We spent a good portion of the afternoon idling in the pleasant waters of the tepidarium. The baths were crowded, so I held my tongue and listened instead while Lucius spoke of the wedding plans. The city of Lucca was preparing for a gala affair to celebrate the long-overdue union of two of its ruling families. Helena appeared content, and her beloved Bartolomeo had written Lucius a letter of thanks.

"Can you imagine?" he said wryly.

"It does seem a bit odd," I admitted.

"I don't think he could have borne seeing her wed to Domenico Martelli," he said. "From what I hear, he's nearly as bad as old Gallus Tadius. His first wife died. He put it about that she came to term early and died in childbirth, but I heard he beat her until she lost the babe. I suppose Bartolomeo has reason to be relieved."

"How is old Gallus Tadius?" I asked.

"Still quiet." Lucius grinned at me. "I hate to admit the priests were right, but he's been mercifully, blessedly quiet."

Clean and refreshed, we strolled through the city. Our usual wineshop was already doing a brisk trade, and I suggested we seek out less crowded quarters. Lucius looked puzzled, but agreed.

"You're being very mysterious, Montrève," he observed.

"I've reason for it," I said.

We found a place on the outskirts of the students' quarter. It catered to day-laborers for the most part; tradesmen and merchants who wanted a quiet drink during the midday hours. The wine wasn't very good, but it was mostly empty, which suited my purposes.

Lucius tasted his wine and made a face, then settled back in his chair. "All right. Out with it."

"Do you remember how you said you'd appreciate my friendship more if I let you reciprocate it?" I asked him.

"Quite well." He looked sharply at me. "This isn't about the time when I asked if there was any chance you might fancy me, is it? Because that's not what I meant. Don't flatter yourself, Montrève. I'm not pining."

"No, no." I shook my head. "I know what you meant. You've been honest and open in your friendship, and I've been… less than forthcoming."

"Mm." A corner of his mouth quirked. "You do cultivate an air of brooding mystery. It grows a bit tiresome."

I laughed. "It's not a-purpose."

"Good to know." He turned somber. "Why? Does it have to do with what happened when you were a child? Bad things, you said."

"It's part of it." I studied my hands encircling my winecup. "You asked about family."

"Is there a Gallus Tadius in yours?"

I glanced up at his sympathetic gaze. "Not exactly. There's a Melisande Shahrizai and a Benedicte de la Courcel. Lucius, I've not lied to you, but I've not been honest, either." I took a deep breath and braced myself for his reaction. "What I told you is true. I was adopted by Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève. But I'm kin to Queen Ysandre, and in Terre d'Ange my name, my full name, is Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel."

Lucius blinked at me, his mouth working soundlessly. He raised his winecup in an unthinking gesture. It slipped from his fingers and shattered on the wooden table. A puddle of wine spread between us and the barkeep hurried toward us with alacrity, a rag in his hand.

"Oh, sweet Apollo!" Lucius whispered. "You're the Bella Donna's son."

I stared at him. "What?"

It had to wait while the barkeep swabbed the table. Lucius muttered under his breath, pacing the wineshop and tapping his temples. I ignored him and thanked the barkeep for his troubles, giving him a few coins and procuring a new cup for Lucius, which I filled and thrust across the table.

"Sit," I said. "And tell me."

"Tell you!" He gave a harried laugh, but he sat and drained his cup, refilling it straightaway. "It's a legend, Montrève—or whatever I should call you. A Serenissiman tale, but it's cropped up in Lucca and elsewhere in the north of Caerdicca Unitas. Not here, not this far southwest. The Bella Donna, the handmaiden of Asherat." He gestured impatiently. "Asherat-of-the-Sea, the Bona Dea, Magna Mater. Whatever you wish to call her. As Master Piero says, the gods wear many faces."